Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

In a rinky-dink place like his hometown, gossip spread like a nasty cold: unwanted, quickly, and through the spittle of words swapped over drinks on a Friday night. The gaming corner of the saloon resided away from the main hub-bub of activity, but Pam never knew how to keep her voice down, nor how to cut herself off after a beer or three. She even sat at the opposite end of the bar, far away from the pool table where Sebastian eyed his next shot, but her barrage of nonsense prattled on louder than those eighteen-wheeler trucks she once drove.

“You oughtta see him, Gus,” she drawled, and Sebastian lowered himself closer to the table, the tip of the cue stick poised to sink the green ball teetering on the precipice of a hole. “Kid’s taller than anyone I’ve ever seen - damn near shocked me when I rounded the corner, and tra-la-la, there he be.”

Sam bit his thumb, watching Sebastian confidently tap the cue ball. It sailed across the fuzzy green lengths of the table before batting against its target, knocking it right over the edge. The cue ball did not follow; it sat victoriously amidst its falling brethren, ready to send another to their doom. Sebastian only needed to give it that push. He rounded the battlefield - Sam looking on, his impending defeat all but assured - and readied his next attack.

“Built like a brick wall and silent like one, too,” she continued. From the corner of his eye, he saw her wave her half-empty flask around, the piss-colored liquid sloshing to and fro within its confines. “Nothin’ like his grandfather, lemme tell you what. That man could yak off anyone’s ear for hours, but his grandson just bowed his head and made some weird gestures ‘fore doing the same to Evelyn.”

“As I understand it, Lewis told me the grandson is mute.” Gus wiped Pam’s puddling mess off his precious mahogany countertop. “Those ‘weird gestures’ might very well be sign language.”

“Sign lang - ain’t nobody here knows how to speak that!” She slammed her tankard onto the counter, creating an even larger mess on poor Gus’s countertop. Sebastian winced at the resounding and hefty thud. “How’s he gonna get along with the valley? Only Demmy’s little girl got the brains to master something like that.”

“Mute, not deaf,” Gus gently corrected. His white towel steadily turned an ugly gold as he rubbed away the lost booze. “He can hear you just fine. I’m sure we can find a work-around. A whiteboard and some markers, maybe.”

“Seb?” Sam snapped his fingers in front of Sebastian’s face, pulling him out of his impromptu eavesdropping session. “You gonna take your shot or what? Don’t leave me hanging in anticipation here.”

“Anticipation’s the best part,” he replied, rolling one of his shoulders before settling in front of the cue ball. The red ball, dangerously close to the dreaded number eight, could either make or break the game.

“Poor kid,” Pam said. She let out a heavy sigh while Sebastian angled his cue stick in an awkward maneuver. “Can’t imagine what that must be like.”

The cue ball clacked against the red, which nudged the eight the wrong way as it rolled toward certain doom. Sebastian braced internally as the eight reached a hole’s edge, then performed the world’s best balancing act. The red ball sank out of sight, clearing the rest of the table. He let out his bated breath and rested the cue stick on his shoulder, cocking an eyebrow.

“What’s that make?” he asked, meeting eyes with Abigail. “Ten to two for this month?”

“Ten to a negative million and three-quarters,” she replied. Sam let out a pitiful groan, running his hand through his spiky hair.

“How,” he said, cradling his cue stick like a dying brother-in-arms, “how could I be so bad? You’d think I’d have enough practice at this point. Isn’t the saying ‘practice makes perfect?’”

“So they say,” Abigail tacked on. She stood up from the couch and nudged Sam’s shoulder, and Sebastian quelled the pang of jealousy eating up his stomach. “I’m sure you’ll get there eventually. In about twenty years, and after Seb’s developed arthritis from tapping on a keyboard all day, every day.”

“It’s not every day,” Sebastian muttered, ignoring the fact that yes, in fact, it is almost every day, because he found himself restless when not staring at a block of code or the outline of a client’s designed website or some other such project. He set the rack onto the billiard’s table and recentered the balls back onto the surface.

“You should take some stretching tips from Alex,” Sam supplied while nudging Abigail back with his elbow. “I know you’re not a huge fan of the guy, but - ow ow!” He flailed when Abigail put him into a headlock, noogie-ing him relentlessly. “I yield! I yield, oh mighty Queen Abigail, Finest Lady in the Land! Please, mercy on my unlucky soul!”

She released him, smug. Sam spent a few seconds fixing his hair - hard to fix what’s so beyond saving, but that wasn’t Sebastian’s problem - and opened his mouth to say something else when the saloon’s door opened.

The breeze carried with it a man and his dirt-laden jacket. The bell jingled behind him when the door shut, a crowd of eyes wandering in his direction. Sebastian didn’t recognize him at all, meaning it had to be that new farmer Pam blabbed on about. Tall was right; the guy might very well rival some of the trees around town. Yet when people stared at him, his shoulders hitched inward, shrinking his existence by a few inches as he shuffled over to Gus’s counter.

“Huh.” Sam picked at the tip of his cue stick, watching the farmer reach the counter and have a weird staring competition with Gus. “He’s, uh. Something.”

“Look at that hair,” Abigail said, twirling a lock of her own around her pinky. “It’s so long and silky - do you think he and Elliot are related somehow?”

Sebastian didn’t know or care. He shrugged to convey his utter disinterest, albeit cringing internally at the second-hand embarrassment of a grown man floundering on communicating with another person. Gus, for all his exemplary customer service, spared the guy an even bigger scene by simply sliding a pad of paper and a worn-down pencil across the counter.

“One more round?” Sebastian asked, but both his friends kept their attention on the new guy. Not surprising; it wasn’t often someone willingly came to the valley. Why, he could never understand. He spent most waking hours wanting to kick the town to the curb on his way to Zuzu City. Everyone knew too much about you here, whether you liked it or not and no matter how many times you tried to keep your affairs private.

But what else was there to do around here in the first place?

“One salad, coming up,” Gus said, and the farmer nodded once. “Go on ahead and meet some of the rest of the valley in the meantime, why don’t you? Everyone’s been looking forward to meet you.”

Don’t talk for me, Sebastian wanted to gripe, but he bit his tongue down. Someone told him once upon a time the sign of a grown-up was knowing when to keep your thoughts to yourself. Perhaps he was maturing, after all, despite all the jabs from his best friends saying otherwise. He turned his back on the conversation, feeling the eyes of the newcomer boring into his back (Look, man, I don’t know how to sign. Don’t make this awkward for me.) as he lifted the rack to free the balls for another round of Sam’s slaughter.

He thought maybe he could stave away the nuisance of one-sided conversation.

Instead, here came the farmer, his mud-encrusted boots leaving a trail in his wake with each heavy step. Abigail and Sam tilted their heads back just to maintain eye-contact.

“Hi!” Abigail held out a hand. “Nice to see you, I’m Abigail. These boys here are Sam,” she jerked her head in their direction, “and Sebastian. You’re running the farm, right? Sounds like hard work. What’s your name?”

The jukebox cued up with a familiar jam, and the atmosphere changed from curious whispering to whoops and hollers from the regulars, all rising from their seats to dance. The farmer glanced over his shoulder, eyes wide at the spectacle, before writing his name down on the paper Gus provided. Sebastian spared a glance at it, eying the all-caps, squiggly handwriting reading:

I’M SUNNY.

“Sunny!” Abigail reached over and patted a surprised Sunny square on the back. “That’s a great name! Hey, when you get a minute, can you write down what hair products you use? I’m super jealous of how nice and shiny you get yours.”

“Can’t I get a word in here?” Sam grinned and gave a quick wave. “You should totally join our band. Three S’s and an A all together? We can be SASS. SASS. That’s really cool, man.”

“I dunno, I think I liked the ASS combo myself.” Abigail smirked and burst out laughing at the red tint blossoming on Sunny’s face. “Sorry, buddy. We’re just kind of like this. Don’t be shy to say hello to us from time to time - outside of Sam’s band recruitment. Seriously, we just met the guy.”

“Miss all the shots you don’t take,” Sam replied, making finger-guns. “But yeah, cool to meet you, dude. Hope to see you around more. Right, Seb?”

“What? Can’t hear you over the music,” Sebastian lied. Sam and Abigail exchanged looks and shook their heads before resuming their banter in front of the new farmer. It’s not that he wanted to be unfriendly or anything. Just, after meeting, what could they even do together? A farmer and a programmer are in two entirely different worlds. It would be an awkward affair and fall apart before it even began.

Keeping one’s distance from the inevitable is a surefire way to stop getting hurt from the obvious.

He readied his cue stick for a game against himself, and struck the yellow ball. It hurdled toward a corner hole and sank with a heavy thud against the winding plastic pipe.

*

He picked up smoking a handful of years ago as a means to self-medicate. Without an afternoon/evening cigarette, his brain turned to sludge, his attention span shrunk to nothingness, and his legs got the jitters. Walking to the nearby lake also killed some excess built-up energy, too; the mountains made his leg muscles the strongest part of his body, other than his thumbs.

The lighter flickered a few times before spurting to life, engulfing the end of the cigarette in a dull orange glow. His gaze fixated on the lake’s flat surface. Not many people considered the spot picturesque, given how the lakeside was nothing but mud and rock. Therefore, it was perfect for him. No one else except the homeless guy wandered this way whenever he needed a space to think.

Or at least that used to be the case, until the giant rock blocking one of the lake’s bridges got dismantled, reopening the old mines. No one smart ventured in there willingly. Sebastian did, all of once, on a dare once upon a time as a kid; he couldn’t recall what happened down there from what Harvey said was a “traumatic experience.” Sure, whatever. Sebastian called it “tired memory.” He just now needed to know not to go there anymore.

Someone didn’t pass that memo along to the farmer.

Sebastian heard the labored breathing first, followed by a jingle of metals banging together in a bag. He looked up from the waters and frowned at the mine’s entrance, darker than ever as the sun set. A beat passed, then two. Then a third, followed by a brown hand jutting out of the carved hole. It latched onto frame before pulling the rest of the haggard farmer out.

Sunny, one part of his brain provided while the other shrieked, what the fuck is that pink stuff all over him?

Pink and green and whatever other colors rainbowed together under the sun adorned Sunny’s tattered jacket. The bag he hefted shared the same pallette. Sebastian blinked once as Sunny sheathed a chipped sword around his waist and took a deep, tired breath.

What.

Sebastian remained perfectly still as the potential psychopath-disguised-farmer dragged the bag - filled with his victims? - along the shore - nah, sounds like metals. Wait, did he go, like, mining down there? - back over the creaking plank called a “bridge.” It bent from the weight of both Sunny and his bag, almost disappearing into the water - good Yoba, how strong is he?

Anyone else seeing this - knowing the residents of the valley - would probably run over and offer him a hand to carry that back. But Sebastian wasn’t “everyone else,” and the bag was roughly half his size. He was no Alex or Abigail. Instead, he watched Sunny’s boots sink hard into the muddy paths, stopping every couple of steps to take a breather or pluck a dandelion.

At the rate he was going - Sebastian checked his cracked cell phone - it’d take the poor guy ten million years to get back home. The cigarette in his hand burned down to a pathetic stub, unsmokeable. Sebastian’s frown deepened as he pocketed the phone and, despite better judgment, ambled over toward Sunny with regretful steps.

“Hey.” He lifted a hand in greeting, to which Sunny lifted his eyebrows in - what, surprise? Shock? Asking who in their right mind, exactly, chilled out by the lakeside at dark o’clock at night? He grabbed the other end of the bag - holy crap - and winced. “What’re you carrying, a body?”

For a moment, Sunny tilted his head in consideration before his lips quirked into a silent, wheezing laugh. It was a weird, guttural sound, as if someone replaced his vocal cords with a whistling train engine. Then he shook his head with a definitive “no” before opening the top of the bag. Even in the dark, Sebastian could make out the telltale glints of bronzes and silvers amidst a sea of black stones. He reached in and picked up one of the shinier ones, pale and cold to the touch yet oddly smooth, before thinking better of it and returning it in the rest of Sunny’s haul.

“This doesn’t look like farming,” he said.

Sunny nodded. The spring peepers began croaking.

“Well, I mean,” Sebastian frowned and scratched the back of his neck, “vegetable farming. Or whatever. This is more like mineral farming.”

Sunny nodded again. His dark brown eyes twinkled in a peculiar delight at Sebastian’s horrendous attempts at conversing - which, why the hell am I doing that in the first place - before pulling the string to tie the bag shut once more. He tilted his head in the direction of that old farm, and Sebastian, with a sigh, resigned himself to the fate he bestowed upon himself.

By the time they reached the farm, the sun disappeared and a waning crescent ascended, giving off a dim light to keep track of their footfalls. The path gave way to a heavily wooded mess of annoying tree roots and overturned rocks. Sebastian’s arms quaked from the weight of holding one end of the bag while trying to make sure he didn’t trip. Abigail loved places like this, secluded and overwrought with nature. Clearly she never tried to maneuver in this place in the dark.

A faint light emanated from a cracked window in the distance. Sebastian squinted and spotted the outline of a wooden shack, overcome with sprawling vines. A few feet from it were rows upon rows of sticks, hoisting even more green curly things. His sightseeing distracted him long enough for him to stumble over his own feet. The bag fell with a hefty clunk.

Sebastian groaned.

“Tell me we’ve made it,” he muttered, rolling onto his back. The stars winked back at him, clear skies foretelling yet another day without much-desired rain. Sunny’s head blocked his view, peering down at him, brow furrowed in concern. “I’m fine. Just. I’m never doing that ever again, got it? One time deal.”

Sunny’s eyes crinkled at their edges - his mom called those “crow’s feet” - before offering a hand. Sebastian took it and felt himself lifted back to steady ground. Was this seriously a farm? He could’ve mistaken it for some backdrop for a horror flick. This guy literally left the city to move here? What sort of madness did one need to catch to do that willingly? Well - he glanced at the stains on Sunny’s clothing - this was a man who ventured into those mines, so anything was possible.

Sunny lifted the bag onto the corroding porch, the wood squeaking in lament at their new burden. He tilted his head upward, letting out a whooshing breath, before giving Sebastian a thumbs’ up. Mission accomplished? Sebastian rubbed the back of his neck, diverting his eyes back toward the shack while Sunny jostled through his pockets before pulling out some keys.

Wait.

“Is this your place?”

Sunny blinked, pausing mid-step up the two steps to the door. He pursed his lips, glancing at the shack ready to collapse at any minute from dilapidation, before nodding once. He made a gesture Sebastian interpreted to be, Want to come in? as he unlocked the door.

And people said living in the basement should make someone question their life choices. Sebastian took a step back, hesitant, wondering if the door hinges would give way. Sunny held the door open for a few additional seconds, perplexed, then held it wider - as if space to get in was the problem here. Who invited borderline strangers to just waltz into their homes with zero apprehension?

“Uh,” he said, ever-so-eloquently and with the charismatic equivalent of a goblin king hellbent on world domination, “I mean, are you sure? It’s late.”

Sunny nodded, making the same gesture for Sebastian to come along, before ducking his head to fit under the doorframe. Huh. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, bit his bottom lip, and then sighed as he caved in to curiosity of just how a city boy survived as a greenhorn. If anything, it’ll give him more conversation fuel with Abigail, who expressed interest in getting to know Sunny better.

Inside didn’t fair much better. An old CRTV sat on the floor next to the lit fireplace. A simple square table, sporting chips in the polish, sat by the window, two mismatched chairs adorning it. And an abundance of plants. Plants made of for a majority of the sparse decorations, leaving much to be desired. Living in such a tiny place for a man so tall sounded horrendous. Sebastian felt a little bad for him.

Sunny held up a pointer finger - one second - and rummaged through a chest of drawers, looking for something. Sebastian stuffed his hands into his sweatshirt’s pocket, fingers picking at the lint buildup when he felt something small rub up against his legs. He almost let out an undignified squawk, but he managed to swallow it when he looked down. A cat. A cat, striped and snuggly, paced back and forth along Sebastian’s calves, shedding ample amounts of gray fur all over his jeans.

He never had a pet before. He liked animals, but they took a lot of commitment and money and resources he didn’t have the energy to indulge in. He squatted down, frowning at the little guy who kept pacing for attention, its tail flicking about to and fro. The nameplate on its collar read “RASCAL.”

“Sure live up to your name, don’t you,” Sebastian muttered, one hand petting the little critter while the other picked at the static-infested fur clinging to the denim. His attention shifted back to the farmer, who approached with a small bag dwarfed in his hands. Sebastian rose.

“What?” His brow furrowed when Sunny pushed the bag into Sebastian’s care. “For me? Why? Oh, for that?” He clicked his tongue when Sunny pretended to heft up an imaginary bag. “It’s fine, you don’t have to give me anything for it. I didn’t have anything else to do, and you needed a hand. No, really, you don’t - okay, okay, I’ll look. Fine.”

White bushels enshrined in greenery stared back at him from their plastic confines. Cauliflower. A whole half a dozen of them, too. Sebastian licked his lips and returned Sunny’s brimming confidence with sheepish gratitude. “Okay - okay. I won’t say no if you’re so insistent. Thanks. You know, I like this sort of stuff.”

Sunny’s eyebrows lifted, then nodded once to himself. He clapped his hands together and bowed - thank you again, Sebastian assumed - before giving Sebastian a shy smile. Pam was right; communicating with him without a drop of sign language knowledge was going to be a pain. Learning languages proved time-consuming and horribly frustrating to many people for a reason.

Then again, he learned C++ and a handful of other coding languages for fun.

“Right. I guess I’ll head out then?” He waved, which Sunny mimicked. “Yeah. Cool. Goodnight.”

The door squeaked shut behind him, and the crisp spring air greeted him. Walking back home through the brush and bramble this late was going to be a pain. He groaned, and lit another cigarette for a pick-me-up.

Why’s such a small place like Pelican Town got to be so big outside?

Too bad it wasn’t as big as Zuzu City.

He inhaled, filling his lungs with the slow-acting poisons not quite strong enough to kill him yet, and exhaled slowly, stepping off Sunny’s slipshod front porch. What a way to live. Sebastian couldn’t understand it. Giving away produce when he could be selling it to work on his joke of a house? He almost felt bad, feeling the weight of the cauliflower slowing him down with second thoughts. Should he return it?

No - no. If he returned it, the farmer might get the wrong idea and think Sebastian was calling his cauliflower shitty or something like that. He was antisocial, not a dick. Even he had social standards he abided to. Oh, you seem really poor, you sure you should be making bad financial decisions by thanking me? Yeah, a real great way to start off a friendship, for sure. Maru would’ve been over the moon with him for that one. He rolled his eyes and stepped cautiously over a fallen branch, determined to never be tripped up again.

Friendship, huh?

He flicked the burning end of his cigarette, palm pressed against a tree trunk as he hopped over a huge rock. Well, it could be, but Sebastian wasn’t really looking for that right now. He had his hands full with Sam and Abigail as-is, and he only had two hands. Two hands that couldn’t sign, either.

The cauliflower bag jostled by his side as he finally made it through the maze comprising the farm. A dirt path wound around the taller cliffs of the valley’s mountains. Not far from home now, where his mom would undoubtedly question him where he’s been and why he’s out late. Maru loved cauliflower, so she’d either swipe one out of the fridge or use it in one of her experiments. He sighed. The idea of going back and dealing with his family sucked.

But it’s not like he could just live outside forever. He kind of needed his computer for his work. Ditching it right now just wasn’t feasible, as appealing as it might seem. Besides, at this hour, they all could very well be asleep by now. No one around to annoy him.

Still. He paused, glancing over his shoulder. The dim light emanating from Sunny’s shack window danced between the shadows like a will-o-wisp. What was it like, leaving everything he knew just to come here? Did he regret it? Enjoy it? Not like he could get an answer, anyways. It was useless to think about, but Sebastian wanted a frame of reference for his questionable, daunting future.

If he even had one.

He dropped the cigarette to the ground and stomped on it, smothering out the light, then picked it up to take it back to the place he unfortunately called “home.”

Chapter Text

Cooking proved itself a tiresome ordeal that plagued his every hungry moment. Measurements this, ingredients that; step upon step compiling on each other toward the ever-distant doorway to dinner. By the time he decided whatever it was he wanted for the evening, Demetrius or his mother conjured up plans he had no part to play in. Whatever got made, he wolfed down, never bothering to revel in its flavor. Just another means to get his fingers to work, flexing what feeble dexterity they had over a keyboard.

Today, though. His forefinger rapped against the kitchen counter, staring at the plentiful cauliflowers sitting before him. Today would be different.

He liked cauliflower. They reminded him of bleached brains, if you looked at them the right way and under the correct mood lighting. Some might call that morbid. He called it a typical Tuesday noontime thought. Okay, well, not really typical, since it wasn’t often some brickwall of a man bestowed unto him the gift of brassica oleracea (which apparently was the super stupidly specific scientific subcategory Sebastian seldom said, but Demetrius was keen on having him memorize it for whatever reason).

And since he had so much of it - six bushels worth - he might as well do something with them before they became fermented brains fit only for jars on some serial killer’s desk. It’d be a waste of a present.

(And how often did he get those?)

He scowled at the incessant pop-ups plaguing the mobile version of a recipe website, batting at the “X’s” with his thumb in an epic battle to test his patience. Seriously, why did cooking have to be so complicated? The food processor awaited its sacrifice, blades poised to slice the florets to paste. A slew of other foods - eggs, cheeses, and a variety of different spices he pillaged from the cupboard - stood in attendance, awaiting their turn. He let out a slow, aggravated sigh when he at last closed the final advertisement standing in his way of doing what his mother might call a sign of Yoba’s second coming.

Alright. Here goes… something.

He picked up a knife he hoped was a paring knife (knives were knives, as far as he was concerned, all meant to chop crap up) and wormed it into the cauliflower’s leaves. They fell to the wayside easily. So far, so good. He ushered the brainy-bits under the faucet, soaking them good from whatever fertilizer and other gunk clung to it. Not bad. He splayed them out onto the cutting board like a specimen in preparation for dissection, his makeshift scalpel glinting in the kitchen light. The cut split the cauliflower in half, then in uneven quarters. Hey, he was no doctor, he was just a programmer. It’d have to do.

“Whoa. Did I put on the wrong glasses, or am I seeing this right?”

Ugh. Sebastian frowned as he pointedly ignored his sister’s - half-sister’s - snark and began separating the florets by hand. Maru pursed her lips, approaching the kitchen counter and picking up one of the eggs.

“It’s weird for you to be in the kitchen for longer than five minutes at a time,” she added, inspecting its shell. “It’s kind of nice to see you. You know?”

Why did she do this every time? Maru, with her portrait next to the dictionary definition of “a parent’s pride and joy,” trying to extend an olive branch to her comparatively dreadful “waste of space” older brother. He knew the score, even if he claimed he never kept a tally. He grunted and pushed the florets into the processor.

“Um,” she tried again, “what’re you making?”

She wouldn’t stop bothering him unless he humored her, huh. He clicked his tongue as the blades whirred to life, turning the cauliflower into a squishy mound. “Don’t you have work today at the clinic or something?”

“Seb, it’s Wednesday.”

“Oh.” So it was. He could’ve sworn it was Tuesday.

“Are you going to tell me what you’re making, or should I throw out a couple of hypotheses?” She pushed up her glasses, squinting at the ingredients with heightened scrutiny. “Actually, don’t tell me, it’s more fun that way. I’m thinking… hm. Garlic bread?”

“How can you make bread without yeast,” Sebastian drawled, scooping out the cauliflower paste and smearing it onto the baking pan. “I thought you were the smart one.”

“Actually, you can make plenty of different types of bread without - anyways.” She waved her hand, dismissing the petty argument. “If not garlic bread, then I believe you’re making pizza crust. Right?”

He shrugged, secretly miffed she got it so quickly. A knowing smile crossed her face; ugh, why was she so - so -

“What kind of pizza?”

“Uh.” He blinked at the disarming question, then stared at baking pan. He scratched the back of his neck. “Cauliflower pizza?”

“You don’t sound so certain there. Do you maybe,” she tilted her head, “want some help? With deciding, I mean. I won’t get in your way, I promise.”

A little too late for that. Still, it would do no good if he made a pizza crust and had no actual plans for what type of pizza he wanted to munch on. The silence stretched on between them, and Maru, always one to catch on quick, nodded once before approaching the refrigerator. She hummed some tune he recognized but couldn’t quite place the name to, assessing their options. Sebastian returned his focus to the oven, preheated to - he doublechecked - right, 375 degrees. He shoved the baking pan into the oven’s gaping maw before setting the timer to fifteen minutes.

“We’ve got some tomatoes Dad bought, some peppers, and some onions here.” Maru precariously balanced a growing mound of vegetables in one arm while her other hand rifled through the bottom drawers. “I’d say mushrooms, but you’re not a huge fan of those, right? How about olives?”

“Only your dad in this house likes those nasty things.”

Maru gave a small, sad smile: “You know, he’s your dad, too. Technically speaking.”

The corner of Sebastian’s upper lip twitched, a plethora of counterproductive arguments ready to spit venom at her assertion. Instead, he swallowed the poisons back down, choking on it and letting it fester in his gullet. He ground his teeth together, stare pointedly fixated on the timer which wasn’t counting down fast enough.

An awkward silence ensued. Maru filled the void by pulling out another cutting board and spilling the amassed toppings onto the counter. She inspected the bell pepper in her hands, tongue sticking out in thought, before beheading the stem. Huh. Sebastian frowned, watching just how dexterous she was with her hands. His mental image of her working on anything was more or less a bombastic, messy image; she had a lab, and labs often belonged to mad scientist archetypes. Instead, she diced the pepper with the finesse of a true pizza connoisseur, followed by the tomatoes.

She hesitated when it came to the red onion’s turn.

“Um. Do you mind cutting this for me? I seriously cry every time I slice open one of these things and my face gets super puffy.”

“Seriously?” Sebastian rolled his eyes and took the offered knife. “That stuff’s just overexaggerated in TV shows. Maybe you’ve just got low onion constitution.”

“Have you never cut an onion before?”

“No, but,” he lobbed off the icky root end and plucked the flaky skin off, “I’ve seen Mom do it a lot, and she never tears up or anything.”

“Mom has super powers in cooking. She must have mastered the technique or something. Just be careful, okay?”

“No, you’re just a wuss.” He plunged the knife into the center of the onion, splitting it in half. He waited a moment for the rumored malicious onion tears - but nothing happened. Smug, he side-eyed Maru while cutting the halves into quarters, then began turning them into smaller, more manageable sections for dicing. He blinked a few times, nose wrinkling, then balked. A sting plucked tears from his eyes, digging itty bitty daggers into his retinas and forcing water to pour profusely from the ducts.

Maru quirked an eyebrow while keeping a reasonable distance on the other side of the kitchen. “Soooo,” she said, removing her glasses and wiping the lenses with her shirt, “if it makes me a wuss, does that make you a wuss too, or?”

“Shut up.” Holy shit, ow. He rubbed at his eyes with his sleeves - “Wait, don’t do tha - oh dear” - and immediately regretted it, the stinging amplifying to an unbearable burn. He grimaced, eyes squeezing shut. “Ow, ow ow - what do I do to make it stop?!”

“Here, lemme -” the faucet rushed on, “okay, wash your hands first, then dab at your eyes with cold water. It’ll help flush them out from the gas.”

“I’m never cooking again,” Sebastian groaned, blindly swatting for the soap dispenser and smearing the pumpkin pie-scented goo over every inch of skin his hands possessed. He splashed his face a few times, pushing the base of his palms against his eyes to get them to stop crying like some lonely toddler. He breathed out slowly, feeling the sting alleviate after a few moments, then blinked rapidly when he lifted up his head out of the sink.

“Let’s leave the onions to Mom next time,” Maru suggested.

“Good call. Pre-sliced onion only zone from here on out.”

After the now hereby titled “Onion Incident,” the rest of the cooking process went relatively smoothly. Maru took over onion duty after the initial tear-producing fiasco passed while Sebastian squeezed the life out of the cooled cauliflower paste, draining all of its excess fluids. He glanced over the recipe and followed the mixing instructions - egg, cheese, spices, this isn’t looking so bad? - before laying out the uncooked crust on the pan as evenly as possible.

Maru whistled. “That looks really good. You’ve got a knack for this, you know that?”

“You’re just saying that so you can have a piece,” he dismissed. Since when did Maru (or anyone in the household) compliment him so willy-nilly? He pushed the crust into the oven and cranked up the temperature to 450 degrees. They weren’t even done yet and he was already exhausted from all the effort.

She frowned, then shook her head, unwilling to argue. She settled for changing the topic instead. “Where’d you get the cauliflower anyhow? I didn’t think Dad bought any when he went grocery shopping the other day.”

“Oh. Uh,” Sebastian shrugged, fingers picking at the lint dotting his sweatshirt pocket’s lining, “that new farmer gave some to me. For some reason.”

Maru’s eyes brightened, smile returning to her lips. “You mean Benny? No, shoot, what was his name, it’s on the tip of my tongue - the one running the old Starshine Farms on the edge of town. Tall guy?”

“I think it’s Sunny.”

“That’s it, yes.” She nodded a few times to herself. “I’m surprised he’s able to grow anything there to begin with. It’s totally rundown.”

Rundown was an understatement of the century. Borderline uninhabitable was more like it. Sebastian gave a noncommittal hum in acknowledgement. The guy seemed to make it work, though, if the cauliflower was of any indication. His mind wandered to the shack played off as a place of residence; there was barely any space between the top of Sunny’s head and the sinking ceiling. Must be a total pain, having to duck all the time.

“I heard that he came from the Zuzu City,” she continued, leaning back against the countertop. “Wonder what he did beforehand, you know? Like for his job. Maybe a star basketball player?”

“Why not, oh I dunno, ask him instead of me?”

Maru gave him a flat stare. “You know why.”

Right. Guy can’t talk. Sebastian sighed, scratching the back of his head as he glanced at the oven. Why couldn’t the timer read “0:00” already?

“Although I have been watching ViewTube videos during breaks and whatnot to try and learn FSL to make it easier for him. It’s actually kind of neat how sign language breaks down sentence structures. Did you know that question indicators are usually put at the end? Like, instead of saying, ‘what are you doing,’ it’s more like ‘you doing what?’ Cool, huh?”

“You would find that cool.” Sebastian’s flat tone hoped to convey his utter disinterest in the topic. They barely talked as it was, and now she’s just rambling on and on and on about things he couldn’t care less about. Yeah, Sunny signed. So what? It wasn’t Sebastian’s responsibility to learn how to speak something else just because a stranger he knew nothing about spoke it. Er, signed it. Whatever.

Then again. He frowned, glancing at the littered remains of the cauliflower among the other vegetable waste. If he took Sam up on his offer for joining their band, then it’d be somewhat beneficial for them to have a way to understand him.

If he even plays an instrument. Why can I see him with a classical cello?

He flipped the cauliflower crust once carefully, baking it for a few additional minutes, before removing it from the oven to cool a little. Maru licked her lips in anticipation, already hurrying to pull out the tomato sauce they had buried in the back of the pantry. She scooped out hefty gloops of it onto the crust with a spoon while Sebastian adorned it with some more cheese.

“Pizza,” she said, followed by a peculiar gesture with her hands. Sebastian quirked a nonplussed eyebrow. “You hold up two fingers like this, then make an air ‘Z,’ followed by closing the two fingers into your palm. Or you can do it like this.” She created a makeshift scoop with her palm, thumb jutting out as she shoved an imaginary pizza slice into her mouth twice. “I think this one’s easier myself.”

“Oh.” Fore and middle finger like air quotes, Z, close it, or shoveling dough. “Okay.” Not that I’m gonna bother remembering that.

She scattered the toppings - including the traitorous red onion bits - on top of the cheese, and Sebastian put it back into the oven for a handful more minutes. His fore and middle fingers crooked like claws and danced in a zigzag pattern before closing. Huh. He didn’t quite understand that one. She was right, the other one made a lot more sense.

“That smells good. Think it’s ready yet?”

“Timer hasn’t gone off.”

“You know, you always say I’m a stickler for rules, but you tend to follow them a lot more than me,” she noted. “It’s been in there long enough, don’t you think? Come on, I’m hungry.”

With a reluctant sigh, Sebastian donned the sheep-patterned oven mitts his mother purchased on a whim last year, then removed the long-awaited prize from its heated confines. The cheese drooled over itself, steam wafting delicious temptation for them to just dive into it as soon as possible.

“I might have to borrow this recipe from you.” Maru dug out their trusty pizza cutter from one of the silverware drawers. “I love cauliflower.”

She does? It felt weird to have something in common, what with being in two entirely different worlds. He made a sound of acknowledgment and watched her divide the pizza into eighths. Then, with the delicateness of a zookeeper taming a feral tiger, she reached for the scorching slab and quickly slid it onto her plate.

“Drum roll, please.”

“What? I’m not Sam. Do your own drum roll.”

“But this is a very special occasion, Seb. This is the first time I’ve ever eaten something you made.” She nodded once, as if completely, totally serious. Why would she be serious about something like that? “It’s what they call a ‘momentous occasion,’ I’ll have you know. In fact, we should take a picture to show Mom and Dad. They’ll have a field day learning you made something.”

“Let’s not do that.”

“Suit yourself. Drum roll?”

He sighed, long and hard, before indulging in her arbitrary nonsense. His hands whacked the nearby table in a less-than-enthused buildup for her first bite. She lifted it up, borderline beaming with unfounded pride, and her teeth clacked together from her mighty chomp.

She chewed slowly. Sebastian caught himself holding his breath, scowled, and folded his arms across his chest to portray his lack of investment in the outcome. It was going to taste bad, she was going to make a joke at his expense, and then he’ll eat the rest of the pizza down in the cave of his room while wasting away on projects with much-too-soon deadlines -

“Wow,” she said, “this is really good!”

He exhaled. “Oh.”

“No, really, Seb - this is super delicious. Seriously, I’m gonna need a copy of that recipe, stat. Can you shoot me a text of the link for the crust later? Mmm.” She scarfed down the rest of her slice before helping herself to another.

“Geez, save me some, why don’t you?” He rolled his eyes and grabbed a plate from the overhead cupboard, standing on his tiptoes to reach. Curse his verticality problems. Maru - taller than him, because of course she was - grabbed it for him and put a slice on it. “Thanks,” he muttered between teeth, avoiding eye contact. He could’ve just hopped onto the counter and got it. No need to showcase her clear superiority like that.

The pizza tasted - well, it tasted different from the one Gus made down at the saloon. He cocked his head to the side, staring up at the ceiling while assessing the flavor. Maybe - just maybe - Maru was right. Maybe it did taste good. He took another bite. Yeah. Yeah, it did. His stare shifted back to the half-eaten slice, briefly admiring his handiwork. He made this.

“You should give some to Sunny.” Maru licked her fingers drizzled in tomato sauce. “I’m sure he’d love to know that the fruits of his labor can make something mouth-watering, you know?”

He wasn’t partial to that idea. He frowned a little and finished the rest of his first slice before grabbing a second. A selfish part of him would rather devour what remained, but… Maybe Maru had a point. Maybe he should give some to the farmer who helped make it happen, in a way. Besides, he never ate much - unlike Sam, who could pack it away until the cows came home.

“I guess,” he replied, giving a noncommittal shrug. Still, Maru seemed pleased at that, giving him a soft smile.

“Well, this was fun, cooking together.” She rinsed off her plate and dunked it into the vacant sink. “We should do it again sometime. It really was nice, doing something siblingly for once. I think that’s the word.”

“Mm.” He bit his bottom lip, unable to find it in his heart to agree. She still agitated him, being the perpetual source for many of his inferiority complex problems. Her and Demetrius both. What Mom saw in that man, he didn’t know; but like the stubborn stain on the knee of his favorite jeans, he’s here to stay.

(Unlike Dad.)

Maru nodded once, taking his response as her cue to leave, before wandering down the hallway back into her room/lab. He lingered in the kitchen a few moments longer, ruminating on what to do with the rest of the pizza, before sighing and finding a small plastic bag to put other slices in. The small hill of dishes watched him pointedly avoid their gaze, informing him in silence that he should not leave a mess for his parents to walk in on, lest he receive another lecture of a lifetime.

Fine. Fine, fine - first wash the dishes, then find Sunny. He didn’t want the evidence of his cooking to remain for them to ask him annoying questions like “what did you make” and “can I have some.”

He had enough headaches as it was already.

*

Sunny wasn’t at the wastelands - er, farm. He certainly was there earlier, what with the small plot of budding crops glistening with a fresh splash of water drip-drip-dripping off their succulent leaves. Rascal peered out from behind the sprawling tall grasses, a striped tail flicking and batting at the resurgence of flies and other bugs. Their return meant the frogs will come soon to snack on them. Sebastian couldn’t wait.

“Hey,” he said to Rascal, who eyed him from his - her? - hiding spot. “Where’s your owner? I’ve got something to give him.”

Rascal let out a keen murble before disappearing into the thicket. Sebastian sighed, scratching the back of his head. He was itching for a cigarette. He hardly went outside except to chat with his two friends or to smoke. But he wasn’t sure if Sunny allowed smoking on his property, plus he had no idea if the released chemicals would affect the crops somehow. He knew next to nothing about farming, but he knew the damage smoking did to his lungs.

Why am I doing this again?

The stored pizza, still warm, sat lightly in the small bag he carried with him. His weight shifted from one foot to the other before deciding to head southbound through the trees and grass to see if Sunny were around somewhere. During daylight, the troublesome roots and natural walls composed of pines didn’t bother his trek as much. In fact - he inhaled slowly - it was kind of nice, in a weird way. Natural. Undisturbed by mankind - or at least reclaiming what rightfully belonged to the earth. Or something. He’s not a poet; Sam wrote the lyrics to their jams.

The winding woods of a farm tapered off into Pelican Town’s Cindersap Forest. Sebastian cast a glance over his shoulder in case he missed Sunny somehow (which seemed impossible, given the man probably was voted “most likely to get found in hide-in-seek” in middle school). Nothing. Great. He sighed and turned his attention to the sprawling wilderness laid out before him. Nothing but trees, bushes, overturned rocks and Yoba knew what else resided there. In the spring, the valley really came alive with activity, an abundance of new growths and flowers finding homes in any spare space to be found. It almost felt too busy. He could be consumed by the woods if he wasn’t careful.

The little pond, a little ways from the daunting forest, was nice and less dizzying, but -

(“Sebby?” Dad smiled and knocked on his door. The gap between his front teeth was all the more prominent. “Wanna come fishing with Papi?”

“It’s so early,” little Sebastian whined, having disobeyed his parents and stayed up way too late watching cartoons. “Dun’ wanna.”)

- but it had too many memories. Sebastian frowned at the pond, its old rotting deck barren of any person here to fi - wait. He squinted, spotting an unfamiliar small bag and a worse-for-wear fishing rod sprawled out along the wooden planks, abandoned. A plastic red cooler sat beside it, closed shut. That’s weird. He looked around - nobody to be seen - before tilting his head upon catching the faint plunks of an electronic piano tune from nearby. In the shadows, he couldn’t see a discernable source for the sound.

Forest’s haunted, we should ditch, one side of his mind decided, while the other said, screw it, we can give the ghosts some decent pizza to appease them before making a run for it. Or they could kill us. Win-win either way.

Against all better judgment (his judgment resided with Abigail, who wasn’t here to give her correct opinion at the moment, and who would just encourage them to risk their lives anyhow), he meandered toward the source, careful to soften his footfalls to not give away his location for any bloodthirsty ghosts who wanted a snack. The sound of piano and violin grew steadily louder, tucked away between the tall trees enshrouding a miniature clearing. Sebastian paused at the clearing’s entrance, balancing himself on one of the oaks.

Sunny. His phone sat on a stump on full-blast, tune jamming from the speakers eerily familiar. Sunny himself tapped on his phone, replaying the same chipper song while he got into position for - for something. Sebastian frowned, confused until Sunny took a step to the left, then to the right - oh, he’s dancing. That’s weird, is he a professional or something? No, he keeps tripping over himself, so is he practicing? For what? Wait - wait, oh no -

Oh, shit, he’s dancing to that flower song for that damn festival!

Why that stupid mayor forced such an equally stupid town-wide event on the residents, Sebastian could only hazard a guess. Sadism, probably. Those dance outfits felt stiff and constraining and far too stuffy for Sebastian’s fashion sense. Every spring brought that dreaded day with it, and every year it takes him by surprise with its impending arrival. He wanted to wither away and die right on the spot.

Well, if he danced with Abigail, it wouldn’t be so bad. His cheeks burned for a moment at the thought: Abigail, donning an uncharacteristic white dress, hair pulled back, humorous eyes setting upon him and staring into his soul, and by Yoba, he’d bare everything to her, because she understood him better than most and was cute as hell to boot. She accepted his dance proposal last year. Maybe she’d do it again this year.

Maybe during the dance, I can tell her - nah, don’t get ahead of yourself there. You’ll never have that courage, no matter what stat-boosting equipment you might have.

A snap of fingers brought him out of his stupor. He blinked once, then lifted his head to the up-close and startling Sunny, who tilted his head in confusion.

“Bwah!” Sebastian backpedaled a few steps and slammed into one of the trees, lichen and moss now taking up residence on the back of his beloved sweatshirt. Sunny’s hands flew up in apology. “No, shit, no, you’re fine, I just - I got lost in thought. It’s cool. You’re good. Don’t worry.”

Sunny’s furrowed brow remained unconvinced, but he lowered his fussing hands nonetheless. He offered a hesitant smile in greeting instead, to which Sebastian lifted his hand in an uncertain wave.

“Um.” Sebastian struggled to pluck off all the uninvited green crap from his sweatshirt. “Judging by the music, I guess you’re planning to go to the dance too soon from now, huh. I’m sure that mayor’ll let you pass if you tell him you have too much work on your farm to do if you’d rather, like, not.”

Sunny shrugged and shook his head. Sebastian interpreted that to be I actually don’t mind. Weird. He could count on one hand the number of people who actually enjoyed participating.

“Then I’ll see you there. I get forced to go every year.” Sebastian let out a haggard sigh. “Things like dances and the social aspects around them aren’t that fun for me. Plus I suck at dancing.”

Sunny’s smile lightened some, nodding in agreement. He pointed to himself, attempted a stumbling jig of a dance, then shook his head as if to say, I suck, too. He let out a raspy laugh before picking up his phone and pausing the earworm passing miserably as music. Sure, he might suck, but he bothered to try practicing before showing up and making a fool of himself. Sebastian gave him credit there.

“Uh, you hungry at all?” He rummaged through his bag and pulled out the cauliflower pizza slices. The toppings clung to the fogged-up plastic. “I made this earlier today from the cauliflower you gave me. It turned out pretty good, so I don’t want it to go to waste or anything.”

Sunny, interest piqued, accepted the bag from Sebastian. He inspected its contents, appearing perplexed.

“Oh, it’s cauliflower-crust pizza.” He made the subconscious motion as he uttered the words: two fingers clawed dancing in a “Z” pattern before closing against his palm. “It’s got pepper and onions and tomatoes on them. I’m never using onions for anything ever again, so think of it like a limited-edition Sebastian pizza - what? Why’re you staring at me like that?”

Sunny’s lips parted, pizza balanced in one of his large hands, before mirroring Sebastian’s motion: claw, Z, close to palm. Sebastian nodded, uncomprehending what the deal was. “Yeah, pizza. I guess it’s a bit of a surprise to use cauliflower for the crust. I was racking my brain on how to use it, so the power of Google came through for me on that one - no? That’s not it? Uh. What’s up then?”

With a little more urgency, Sunny made the same sign for “pizza” before his smile widened from ear-to-ear. Sebastian’s eyes narrowed, still not catching on until Sunny did it a third time. Then the realization slammed into him like a derailing freight train absconding from its tracks at the behest of a drunken operator wanting to fly off a cliff: Oh, Yoba, I signed that. I signed it to Sunny. I bet I totally did that wrong.

“That - I mean,” how the hell was he going to get out of this one? “I just, I learned that an hour ago or so, yeah. Pizza.” He repeated the sign, looking away. “It’s - yeah. It’s the only one I know. Sorry to get your hopes up, I don’t know,” crap, what did Maru say it was again? FSC? No, uh - “FSL at all.”

Sunny’s delight hardly diminished. If anything, his joy seemed to double, almost mingling with the palpable spring air. Sebastian swallowed it down, embarrassment pricking his cheeks. Why was this guy so - so happy over nothing? He heard the plastic bag open, then the telltale munching of pizza. His anxious nerves remained on high-alert when Sunny smacked his lips and took another bite.

He then made a gesture. Sebastian lifted his gaze off the dirt clinging to his shoes to get a glimpse, but he missed it. Sunny nodded, then performed the gesture again - closed eyes, middle finger pressed to his upper lip, then withdrawing from his face before his middle finger connected with his thumb. He did it two more times, nodding emphatically at Sebastian, who felt a cold sweat bead along his forehead.

“So… it’s good?” he asked, to which Sunny nodded. He tapped awake his phone, thumbs energized in tapping out a message, before hoisting the screen up to Sebastian’s face:

DELICIOUS.

And then he made the sign again. Delicious.

Sebastian’s ears burned at the compliment. From Maru, they rang hollow, even if she were being genuine. He couldn’t trust her word, what with being his not-really sister. But hearing such praise from a stranger - well. His chest swelled in a newfound pride. Delicious. He thinks it’s delicious.

“Okay,” he said, then cleared his throat to chase the sheepishness threatening to infect his tone. “Cool. I’m glad. Thanks again for the cauliflower.”

Sunny bowed and nodded his head before taking more bites of the food. Another creeping awkwardness settled onto Sebastian’s shoulders, who took a step back.

“Well, I gotta, uh. Get back to work and stuff, so.” He waved, which Sunny nodded to and mimicked. “Oh, and don’t forget your stuff on the docks. It’s yours, right? The fishing rod? You probably shouldn’t leave that unattended in the future, just in case. Not that the people here are thieves or anything, but still. Like, a bird could come and, you know.” He made a swooping motion with his hand, carrying his other hand away. “Not that it would, but - never mind. I’m rambling. I haven’t had my cigarette today, so my brain’s kind of - yeah. Bye.”

Sunny’s eyes crinkled at the corners as he gave Sebastian another wave. Sebastian turned around and sped up his pace to get back to his basement. This was why he never talked to people. It never turned out well and always lasted for too long because he couldn’t figure out the right words to say. It tired him out faster than exercising, which was saying something. Still, compared to other conversations - if you could call that babbling a “conversation” - it didn’t go too terribly. Maybe. Unless Sunny was laughing behind Sebastian’s back right now.

For some reason, he didn’t buy that mental image. It didn’t mesh with what little he knew of Sunny. If anything, the guy seemed - dare Sebastian assume - kind.

Delicious, he had said. Signed. Whichever.

The compliment followed him all the way back home, accompanied by a distant piano and a flowery violin.

Chapter Text

(The same dream again:

Free-floating honey-nut Jeerios bob in the turbulent milk sea, banging off the unforgiving porcelain shores of his cereal bowl. His spoon spins in fast, rhythmic circles, churning up a whirlpool to sink the oat boats into its white depths. He imagines a panicked crew running across the deck, shouting may-day, may-day! while trying to steer away from the milk guardian’s wrath, only to fall to despair upon realizing they are trapped. He giggles to himself, watching the soggy oats gurgle then emerge then disappear again.

“Have a good day, Sebby.” Mummy plants a kiss on top of his head, and he wrinkles his nose, unenthused to have his fantasy disrupted. “Make sure to drink all your milk. You want to grow up big and strong, don’t you? Dear,” she calls, “if you two decide to head out, make sure he takes off his boots by the door, or else you’re cleaning the mud off the floor this time.”

“Loud and clear, honey.”

“And don’t forget to take out the fish out of the freezer.”

“If you have time to harp, that must mean you’re not running as late as you say you are, hm?”

Mummy’s teeth click together when she closes her mouth, fuming in silence at Dad’s point. She grabs her keys off the key rack, waves to Sebastian, and steps out into the rain-drenched world outside. Rainy weekends are the best weekends. He forces the milk down (the honey makes it more tasty than usual) and stampedes back to his bedroom. Today will be an adventure day, as Dad likes to call it.

He throws on a bright-yellow graphic t-shirt full of cartoon animals, some pants, and a set of mismatched socks before barreling back into the living room, sliding across the polished floor. He does a few more wind-ups and slides, grinning to himself, before tilting his head to listen for Dad. There’s the shaking like a baby’s rattle, one two three four, ra-ta-ta-ta and a distinct grunt from the bathroom. The sink rushes a few moments later, another shaking sound, and a long-winded sigh.

Dad’s “getting ready.”

Most adults drink some icky brown liquid to perk themselves up. Not Dad; he does an entirely different routine, one Sebastian isn’t privy to, and one he never performs while Mummy is still around. It’s “their secret,” Dad’s words, even though Sebastian doesn’t even know what that secret is.

Dad comes out of the bathroom a few moments later, fully shaven and hair still dripping from the shower. He gives Sebastian a toothy grin (the most memorable part about him. Sebastian may forget all else about his father, but that gap-toothed grin haunts him) before staggering toward the kitchen.

“Dad, can we go see the mermaids today?”

“Hmm.” Dad strokes his chin in thought before pulling out an energy bar. Unlike Mummy, he doesn’t have to go to work because he’s a feline. Or something. Sebastian doesn’t fully understand and nobody’s bothered to explain it because he’s too young, but it means more time with Dad. “Rain’s wicked, buddy. If we go looking for them mermaids and we make a mistake, we could very well tumble right into their home. Don’t wanna be doing that now, do we?”

“Then,” Sebastian tries, “how ‘bout the fairy pond?”

“That we can do.” Dad’s eyes sparkle with his grin. “Lemme just get the dinner ingredients all prepped so Mummy don’t have an excuse to get upset, then we’ll go on out. Get your coat and boots ready.”

Time darts from moment to moment like a dragonfly, zipping to and from one instant to the next with little recollection of the journey, hovering in one scene longer than the rest of the blurs. Sebastian stands on the edge of the pond, batting aside the cat’s tails while training his ear for the telltale croaks. Frogs like to come out when it rains to belch out their thanks in a unified hymn to the rain fairies, or so Dad says. That’s why it rains so much in spring compared to the other seasons. The more frogs, the more thanks for all the hard work the fairies bring, and the more likely they’d bless the valley with their gifts.

Dad sits on the dock under a propped umbrella, casting a fishing line. He’s not very good at it, or so he claims. One time, he sat there for four hours and hauled in a whopping two fish - and he called that a good day. Fish don’t like him, apparently.

Sebastian traps a peeper in his hands before dumping it into his orange pail filled with pond water. Holding frogs for too long is bad for them. He lugs the pail back to Dad in excitement, showcasing his finds: a few green ones, a few brown ones. None of the super-colorful poisonous ones he sees in the magazines, but still cool all the same in his book.

“Any signs of the princess?” asks Dad.

“Nope,” says Sebastian, “but lots of her guards. This one’s Toaderson the second. He’s in charge of, uh, of the, um. C. Cal… cave-airy. The ones who ride fish into battle.”

“Calvary,” Dad corrects, retracting his line and casting it elsewhere into the pond.

“Yeah, that!”

“A strong frog,” Dad notes, nodding. “The princess’ll be sure to miss him if he’s kept from his post too long. Make sure you send them back before we leave.”

Dad tells him that every time, as if Sebastian would ever forget. He won’t. He always makes sure the valley’s Frog Kingdom gets all their subjects back, because he doesn’t want the princess to be lonely without her friends.

(The princess: bright purple and yellow, the largest frog in all the land, who only comes out at night and sings to the moon where her boyfriend lives. Because of the long-distance, she gets lonesome easily, but has many friends who trust her with their well-being. So the story goes; Sebastian’s not certain of all the details, but Dad’s always there to fill in the missing gaps.)

(He was always there.)

His hands sink into the pond scum, boots squelching against the mud in victory as he adds another to his growing collection. Today must be a lucky day, because his haul is astronomical. He looks up,

“Dad, I - ”

and his father isn’t there.

(He wasn’t.)

The scene shifts then, a blend of like-minded colors meshing into a hodge-podge of confusion soup. Instead of a frog, his hand is wrapped around his bedroom door’s knob mid-turn. It’s dark, the sun long since set. A low, familiar whistle emanates from beyond his window, the telltale sign of an incoming train. Frogs forgotten, he tumbles out of his bedroom in his jammies, his little feet tip-toeing toward the front door. If he’s fast, he can catch it and see what presents it’ll leave behind.

He freezes when he realizes the kitchen light is on. There’s no sound coming from the kitchen, though. He tilts his head and, steeling his resolve, he peeks from around the hallway corner.

Dad sits at the kitchen table. His forefinger raps against it like a dog’s anxious tail during a thunderstorm, bap bap bap bap bap. An opened orange bottle sits next to a half-full glass, little white dots sprawling across the tablecloth. His leg jitters, and his eyes have a newfound reddish tint to them, as if he’s been crying. But his face isn’t puffy. Sebastian’s face gets puffy when he cries, full of red blotches and gross snot. Dad doesn’t look like that, really, but something is different.

The train whistles low again in warning, but Sebastian ignores it as he toddles toward the kitchen table.

“Dad?”

Dad stirs, slowly, quietly, like an ancient robot in those Saturday cartoons awakening from its eternal slumber. His head lifts, lips drawn into a tight line, and its then his hands begin to shake. The tremors spread to his arms.

“Sebby,” he says. “Papi’s sorry.”

Sorry? Sebastian blinks, uncomprehending. “S’okay,” he says, but he’s not really sure what he’s forgiving him for. Dad smiles, pained, and ruffles the tangled bird’s nest passing as hair atop Sebastian’s head.

“Papi’s really, really sorry,” he says, lower this time. He picks Sebastian up into a hug for all too long and all too warm. Sebastian resists the urge to squirm out of it, finding the heat unbearable. The shakes rock through Dad’s chest, heaving now. “Papi’s tired,” he says, then after a long, insufferable handful of minutes: “But Papi’s got to, ah, meet the mermaids.”

Mermaids? Sebastian perks up - that’s better than any silly old train. “Can I come with you? I wanna see mermaids, too.”

“I’d love to, buddy. But,” he shakes his head, pecking a kiss to Sebastian’s forehead, “maybe next time. Papi promises. This time it’s hush-hush, all boring business stuff. You know how it is, no?”

It’s a promise he never intended to keep (but since when does Dad lie? Always and forever. To Mom. To Sebastian. To everyone). But Sebastian doesn’t know that then. He also doesn’t know it’s the last hug he’ll ever get. Dad sets him down, his large hand scorching against Sebastian’s cheek, before sighing and looking at the white confetti on the table. He scoops it all off the tablecloth before sticking them into his pocket.

“Go back to bed,” he says. “It’s late.”

He yawns and rubs at his eyes. “Is it gonna rain tomorrow?”

Dad purses his lips in thought, brow furrowing. “I think the fairies need a break, so probably not. But it will someday soon.”

“I hope it rains tomorrow,” he says, words slurring together. “I wanna find more frogs with you, Dad.”

It is then the front door swings open, a swelling sea of waves crashing through the house and soaking Mummy’s favorite welcome mat. Sebastian shrieks, clinging to Dad’s leg. But the water is stronger than his grip, tearing them apart, and someone - multiple someones - sings horrifically beautiful songs. Sebastian sputters on salt, little arms flailing - “Dad!” - while his Dad strides toward the source of the sound. A green creature with a human torso and a fish’s tail beckons him, takes him by the hand. Dad closes his eyes - “Dad, no, don’t go!” - and shares a secretive smile with her before another wave - “Dad!” - consumes them both. Sebastian has no hope of catching him, his little arms and legs fighting the force of an angry ocean, threatening to pull him down, down, down into the murkiest depths, a gaggle of yellow eyes peering up at him from below - “Mummy! Mum!” - with no one to save him now. Dad’s gone. He’s gone, the house is gone, all that remains is a sunless sea and a black horizon vacated of stars, no moon for the frog princess to croak to, and Sebastian falls, all of him falls, his heart hammering hard against a contracting ribcage, ra ta ta ta, ra ta ta ta, r a t a t a - )

The alarm clock bleated like a flock of sheep strewn across the road without a care in the world about blocking everyone’s commute. Sebastian groaned, eyes blinking blearily at the unwelcomed morning. He swatted at the alarm and silenced it first try; a new record, if he were awake enough to keep track of such things. Upstairs, he heard Demetrius’s heavy footsteps scuff against the kitchen floor, ever the early bird. Coffee’s sweet serenade called out to him to join the rest of the waking world. His stomach gurgled, wanting breakfast. Reluctant, he peeled himself out from the blankets and rose from his comforter cocoon.

The day hadn’t even started yet, and he was already exhausted. He groaned and ran a hand through his hair, frowning at the faint light from the kitchen pooling through the crack of the basement door. That dream happened every once in awhile as a reminder. As a stern, unforgettable lesson, as a means to live by:

Don’t rely on anybody’s word. Or anyone, for that matter. You can only trust yourself.

He knew that already. It’s embedded in every synapse in his being, every cell pumping blood through his veins. He breathed it in as truth and breathed it out as fact. You only had yourself in this world, because the world didn’t care about you.

He grabbed the cigarettes sitting on his dresser and checked his phone, switching through apps to check the weather. Any rain today?

Nah, all sunny. Go figure.

***

“It’s not too late to turn back. We can totally just ditch.”

“You say that every year, Seb.” Abigail dragged her feet as they made their way through the forest at ungodly o’clock in the morning. “And every year, we’ve got to remind you that if we did that we’d all be in a world of trouble from our respective family members. Doesn’t matter if we’re kids or adults, it’ll always be the same. Hey,” she snapped her fingers in front of his face, “pay attention. You’ve almost tripped six times now.”

“With any luck, I’ll impale my eyeballs on the roots and have to visit Harvey instead of going to this stupid thing.” He rubbed at his face, willing for the coffee Demetrius prepared for him to kick in. While he didn’t particularly like his step-dad, the guy had a knack for brewing powerful cups o’ joe. And he wasn’t about to turn down free bean juice. “Are we there yet?”

“Nope,” said Sam.

“Nuh-uh,” said Abigail.

“How about now?”

“Lemme see.” Sam stopped and surveyed their surroundings, scrutinizing every blooming flower and budding tree. He stroked his imaginary beard in contemplation. “Why, by the crow flies, I daresay reckon we very well may be getting closer, young chum, unless we continue our dilly-dally shilly-shallying with such asinine inquiries.”

“You really need to stop binging those old-timey TV shows and watch the adaptation for ‘Cave Saga X.’ Seb and I just marathoned the first season the other day, it’s so good.”

Sebastian nodded when Sam glanced at him. There were some problems he had with the adaptation, like how they turned Fern into an absolute emotionless husk while her book version, while off-putting, sported some endearing wit here and there. And that cliffhanger was unnecessarily frustrating bait for those anti-readers to get excited for the second season. All things considered, compared to other similar sci-fi adaptations, Cave Saga X was still top-tier. Especially when pitted against the likes of Dawnfall, which - well, he didn’t even want to spare any brain cells pondering that unmitigated disaster. Rotten Potatoes had a rating of 10% for audience scores, if that was any indication.

“I tried reading it, but man, it’s so long,” Sam griped. He yawned and stretched his arms overhead, several joints popping. “Like, I have a life, y’know? Between work, band, and skateboarding, like, trying to read eight hundred pages is totally not my forte. I dunno how you two do it.”

“Effort,” Abigail answered at the same time as Sebastian muttered, “Boredom.”

Sam hummed and kicked a rock aside. “How long’re the episodes?”

“Well, it’s a special, so two hours each, clocking in at six episodes, so that’s a whopping twelve hours total or so. We could totally get together some weekend and watch it again with you.” Abigail’s eyes twinkled. “I could watch the guy they casted for Gunther all day, every day. He’s so good at acting.”

“Wow, that’s gotta be the least sexy name I’ve ever heard.” Sam shook his head. “Poor guy.”

“It’s fine, he’s so attractive that the ugly name isn’t even relevant.”

“Guess I’ll take your word for it. What do you think, Seb?” Sam grinned and wrapped an arm around Sebastian’s shoulders. “Is Abby right? This Gunther guy even more attractive than moi?”

“Doesn’t take much,” Sebastian drawled, and Sam balked, hand clutching at his chest from an invisible wound. He staggered a few peds away, hand slapping against the base of a tree, expression pained.

“Woe is I!” he cried, placing the back of his hand against his forehead. “My friends say I’m an unattractive wart who’ll never get laid! What ever am I to do? Is it the immaculate hair? My big oafish eyes?”

“Yeesh, yeah, you really need to lay off the historical dramas there.” Abigail laughed and patted him on the back, a sting of jealousy pricking at Sebastian’s gut. “C’mon, ‘big oaf,’ you’re not that bad. But we’ve gotta get a move on or else we’re gonna get an earful from the mayor for being late. We don’t want to make this more of a pain than it already is, yeah?”

Instead of hosting the flower dance in the center of the forest, where most of the flowers grew, Pelican Town set aside a squarish clearing across a makeshift bridge for the event. (The bridge always was dismantled after the festivities; for what purposes, Sebastian didn’t know nor care. What was there to preserve over there, anyways? The remains of their dignity cast aside for wearing such tacky outfits?) Little stalls lined the outskirts with different foods and weird items available for purchase. Some early-bird residents already yakked it up beside the punchbowl. Same shit, different year.

Except.

Sebastian’s gaze wandered to - well, zoomed in on really, because how could anyone miss Sunny? Anyways, there stood Sunny, back unnaturally straight as he clutched a red plastic cup appearing so tiny in his hands. He stood along the edge of the event, lips drawn into a tight line, pupils darting back and forth from person to person. Sam whistled and jerked his head towards the farmer.

“He looks more nervous than the first time you tried asking Abby out on a date back in middle school,” he whispered. Sebastian’s cheeks burned and he gave Sam a shushing nudge with his elbow. Nobody needed to hear that, especially Abigail who stood all of three feet away, for Yoba’s sake.

But Sam was right. The guy looked ready to run at any second. Why did you even come if you’re scared shitless?

Well, not his problem. Everyone was in it for themselves today, trying to survive the second-hand embarrassment the event specialized in. They’d have to get changed into those annoying clothes soon, too. Ugh. He sighed and meandered away from his friends toward the food table, because he might as well eat something before dying a slow, miserable, toe-tapping death.

Some blue-haired girl - crap, what was her name again? Elizabeth? She worked at Gus’s so he should know this, uh, wait, Emily, how’d he mess that up every time? - smiled at him from behind the table after setting down a plate full of toasted bagels smeared with what he assumed to be cream cheese. It smelled different from the usual cream cheese they got at the grocery store, though. He quirked an eyebrow when he picked one up, sniffing it. Huh.

“It’s horseradish jam,” she explained, chipper as always despite the time of day. “At least, I call it jam, but everyone else just calls it ‘horseradish cream cheese,’ but it doesn’t have the same viscosity as regular plain ol’ cream cheese. Just for the record.” She nodded a few times, as if that emphasized her point with ample evidence. “It’s my special recipe! Er, at least it could be, if it tastes good.”

Talk about convincing. Sebastian hesitated, wondering if it would just taste like slop, before risking to take a bite. If it kills him, so be it; one less dance he needed to do. He chewed the bagel (an everything bagel, which was the best flavor and no one could tell him otherwise) before lifting his eyebrows in surprise.

“S’good,” he mumbled. Emily lit up. Oh, cute.

“Yeah? You think so? Haley hated it, so I didn’t know if bringing this was a mistake or not, but I’m so glad you liked it! Hey,” she leaned over the table, lowering her voice into a conspiratorial whisper, “do you mind bringing one over to Sunny for me? He got me some stuff I needed the other day and I paid him and all, buuuuut I think he should have one, too. Thanks a million!”

Sebastian frowned. “Why not do it yourself?”

“I’m still helping set up the tables, and it’d look bad if I just, you know, wandered away. Please?” She clapped her hands together into a begging position and lowered her head. “Pretty please? Pretty please with cherries and raspberries on top?”

He felt his resistance waning to the overly adorable puppy-dog eyes she batted at him. With a sigh, he grabbed a napkin and a second half of a bagel before wandering away from the table. She shouted another thank you! that he ignored. Why’s this town filled to the brim with weirdos?

Sunny’s eyes widened when Sebastian approached him, the cup in his hands crinkling. For someone who obliterated quite possibly half the bizarre fauna within the mines, he sure lacked a backbone when it came to socializing it seemed. Sebastian pushed the bagel into Sunny’s hands, who stared at the gift with blank confusion.

“From Emily,” he said, jabbing a thumb at the pixie-passing-as-human across the way. “It’s apparently ‘horseradish jam.’ It’s,” he shrugged, “alright, I guess. Can’t dance on an empty stomach, so. Here.”

Sunny nodded, stare not leaving the inconspicuous reddish-white bits intermingled with the rest of the jam. He poked at it, lips pursed, before taking a bite. Sebastian watched a flurry of expressions cross his face: curiosity, indecision, immense dislike, a forced smile, and a barely visible wince. He gave Emily a thumb’s up across the way, which prompted her to wave in joy at his, ah, “approval.”

“That bad?”

Sunny’s smile waned as he took another bite. What a trooper.

“You don’t have to eat it if you don’t want to. I can give it to Sam. He’ll eat almost anything.”

Sunny shook his head while poking at the horseradish chunks. He licked his lips and, in a move comparable to a hippo yawning, pushed the rest of the bagel into his mouth in one large chomp. Sebastian watched in both fascination and horror as Sunny’s brown skin took on a hint of green, then paled, then returned to some semblance of normalcy after he swallowed. He then chugged the rest of his drink to chase the taste away. Wow.

“Not a fan of horseradish, huh.”

Sunny nodded meekly, pressing the back of his hand to his lips. But he still ate it, just to make Emily happy. Ideas clunked in his rousing brain, churning out, oh, maybe he has a crush on her and wanted to make her happy. That made sense. She was cute in a way, although a bit too happy-go-lucky for Sebastian’s taste. Maybe he was planning on asking her to the dance?

But how will he? He noted the lack of pencil and paper to communicate with, and it’s not like those suits they’ll have to change into have cellphone-sized pockets. Plus, judging by the anxious sweat budding on his forehead, the guy didn’t quite have the resolve to muster enough courage for something so daunting. In a sense, Sebastian understood. He’s been there before. Still was there. He shot a glance at Abigail, who was in the middle of giving Sam another noogie. Must’ve pissed her off again. He sighed.

“Since you practiced, I’m guessing you still want to do it, right?” He scratched the back of his neck. “Dunno why you’d want to do that to yourself, but since I almost killed you with her food delivery, I guess I can make it up to you by asking the person you wanna dance with for you. Or get Abby to do it. She’s much better at this than me, so we can ask her.” He shrugged. “Whichever.”

The shyness doubling on Sunny’s face implied Sebastian threw the dart and hit the bull’s eye with that one. Yeah, he definitely had someone in mind already. Hopefully it was someone who still didn’t have a partner yet. “Alright,” he said. “C’mon.”

Abigail released Sam when they approached, gaze shifting from Sebastian to Sunny and back again. “Hey,” she said, giving a polite smile. “I see you recruited another member in our misery club here. How’s the farm, Sunny? Things growing alright?”

Sunny nodded, and wiggled his dirt-encrusted fingers. Did he not have time to wash them off before coming over? Mom would’ve strangled Sebastian for looking so sloppy if he did that. Oh well. He gestured toward Sunny with his head. “He’s actually looking to ask someone to be his partner, but. Y’know. I offered, but I figured you’d be better at the whole ‘talking to people’ thing.”

“Please, my charisma stats are nowhere near as high as dear old Sam’s here, isn’t that right.” She gave Sam a flat stare, who cowered under it. “Why, he thought it was a compliment comparing my hair to blackberry paste, even though he knows I hate blackberries.”

Sebastian blinked. “But. But don’t you like Mom’s blackberry cobbler?”

“Those are two entirely different beasts,” Abigail stated matter-of-factly. She put her hands on her hips and stuck out her tongue before letting out a small laugh. “Sam, don’t look like such a kicked kitten, I’m not that mad. Relax.”

“I can’t tell if you’re telling the truth or not.” Still, Sam straightened himself out slicked his fingers through his hair. “Craaaap, I have to ask someone to dance, too. I completely forgot about that part. Seb, can you let me borrow Abby this year?”

“Not a chance.”

“Harsh.”

“Anyways.” Abigail clapped to recenter their attention. She smiled at Sunny, who did his best shrinking violet impression. “You wanna ask someone to the dance, right? It’s a little last-minute, but I’m sure we could work something out. Is there anyone particular, or will anyone do?”

Sunny’s mouth opened, then closed, suddenly finding the dirt stupidly interesting. Sebastian resisted the urge to snort. He tapped Sam on the shoulder - “Yeah? Uh, hey, where are we going?” - and pulled him along to give them privacy. If he were about to blurt out his crush, he wouldn’t want it broadcasted to the whole rumor mill disguised as a town. But man, didn’t the guy just move in a little while ago? Talk about “love at first sight.” Sebastian didn’t believe in such things, but good for him, he supposed.

“Hundred Gs that it’s Emily,” Sebastian said.

“What? For his dance partner? You think so?” Sam itched his cheek and paused in front of the dance outfits hanging neatly pressed on a rack. Same old ugly robin’s egg blue. Couldn’t they at least make the blue a tad darker? “I dunno, man. I’ll make it two hundred for that Leah chick. She’s pretty.”

“Deal.”

“I dunno why I make bets with you,” Sam sighed, shaking his head. “You always win them. It’s like you’ve got super intuition skills. Or you’re cheating.”

“I only cheat in games that are impossible to win. Ever tried Ape Ball 64? Those levels are made from nightmares belonging to game designers. It’s like a textbook on how to infuriate your player base in less than thirty seconds.” He pulled down one of the suits with a handmade tag reading his name tied to coat hanger. Once he got this over with, he wouldn’t have to think about it for another 364 days.

And by then, he’ll have left Pelican Town for good. If he had enough savings.

“That’s weird.”

Sebastian made a sound to indicate he was paying attention while finangling with the stupid buttons on the dress shirt. Sam whispered something under his breath, then pulled out his own suit.

“Yeah, no, that’s totally weird. Everyone else’s stuff is here, but,” Sam frowned, “I don’t see no tag for Sunny’s anywhere. Did the mayor forget? He’s the one who invites everyone, so that seems a little funky, doesn’t it?”

“Maybe he already got his. He was here before us.”

“Oh, true.”

Otherwise, Sunny would stick out like a sore thumb during the dance, and that would attract a lot of unwanted attention. The mayor couldn’t forget something like that, right? Well. Sebastian frowned as he stepped into one of the changing stalls, peeling off his favorite hoody and replacing it for an outfit that belonged to a rich man he would never be. It smelled of moth balls. He wrinkled his nose and blanched while resuming his struggle with the accursed buttons.

“Lookin’ good,” Sam said, giving Sebastian a double finger-gun. “Y’know, with a little more effort, I’m sure you could make Abigail turn her head in your direction instead of that Gunther guy.”

“Gunther’s ripped.”

“Oh. Well, load up on them protein bars then! I’m sure Alex can give you pointers on gaining muscles.”

“Sure. I’ll get on that when hell freezes over.” He rolled his eyes and shuffled back over to Abigail and Sunny, both of whom stared at him strangely. He picked at the dress shirt’s ruffles, self-conscious.

“Look at it this way,” Abigail said, patting Sebastian on the small of his back. It tingled and sparked with warmth. “At least it’s not bright screaming pink? That would totally clash with your aesthetic.”

“Please stab me to death with a fork. It’ll be less painful.”

“Come on, Seb. It’s really not that bad. It’s dashing.” She smiled, and Sebastian’s stomach performed somersaults over itself. After knowing her for so long, he would’ve thought it would no longer have such an effect on him. But it bedazzled him like magic, her words, her - her everything. He hoped his face wasn’t as hot as it felt. “Too bad I won’t get to see it in action this year, though.”

What?

“Huh?”

“Oh, see.” Abigail twirled a lock of hair around her pinky, peering up at the sky. “While you and Sam were changing, me and Sunny started walking around and I did an oopsie and fell flat on my ass. Totally rolled my ankle and it hurts like a bitch. Sunny tried to catch me, but, oh well.”

Sunny began sweating bullets, mouth parting in a mixture of confusion and worry. Something sounded fishy about this, and Sebastian’s eyes narrowed to look for any traces of a lie in her voice.

“You can ask Shane,” she added, passing her Charisma check with a nat-20. “He saw.”

Dammit.

“But that’s super convenient,” she continued, “because now we don’t have to worry about uneven numbers.” She nudged Sunny with her elbow, giving him a devilish grin. “Because good ol’ reliable Sunny here will take my place this year.”

Sunny and Sebastian blinked.

“What.”

“No problems here, right? Sure, Sunny’s a bit taller than you,” understatement of the century, “but it’ll work out.”

“He’s a guy,” Sebastian said, shaking his head. “Two guys can’t dance with each other. That’s just - ack!”

Abigail’s arm hooked around his neck, dragging him away from Sunny and towards the edge of the field. His gargled protests did little to deter her strength as she pulled him toward the outskirts. She released him at a satisfactory distance, then grabbed him by the shoulders. Her smile, too outstretched for his liking, took on a sharpened twist.

“Sebby,” she said, “guys can dance with each other just fine.”

“I - yeah, I know that. It’s just,” he averted her pressing stare, “weird - well, not weird, but I’ve only ever danced with you. And I’m used to it that way. And you make this whole event less awful because of it. You know? Why are you lying about your ankle, anyways, since you can walk just fine?” Do you hate dancing with me that much?

Her face crumpled into a caught look. She tapped his shoulders in thought. “I don’t really know how to say this,” she said, setting alarm bells off in his head - oh, Yoba, she hates me, what did I do? - “but let’s just say it’s a favor?”

“A,” he repeated, swallowing hard, “favor?”

“Yeah. You know, when you owe someone something, and then an opportunity presents itself for you to repay it? Something like that. Long story short, Sunny told me who he wanted to dance with, more or less, and I decided to repay him in my own way, so.” She quirked an eyebrow. What is he, everyone’s handyman? How many favors do people owe him? “So here we are. You follow me?”

No? Sebastian squinted, his attempts to parse her statements rolling a two. One would think his high INT would save him from such a dreadful throw, but not even the higher powers that be could help him now. On the plus side, it might be the case she didn’t hate him, after all.

“Uh,” he said, glancing back at Sunny who picked anxiously at the dirt in his nails in the distance, “was his wanted partner taken?”

“Not anymore.”

“Then when not ask her instead of this weird charade of him dancing with me?”

She gave him a flat look. “Sebastian,” she said, and ho boy, her using his full name never spelled a good time, “I think he wants to dance with you.”

Someone once said something like, the truth will set you free. How or why was never explained properly, and Sebastian could provide at least one hundred examples of how it would actually backfire. Abigail uttered this truth so fast that he almost didn’t catch it between the laughter shared between the mayor and the livestock lady. When it sank in - when he got her implications - he almost jerked back in surprise.

“What? Why?”

“Do you think I know? He just pointed at you when you walked away. Or me. It wasn’t really clear. I think it was you, though.”

“We’re not even friends?” Sure, they had a conversation once or twice, but that was about it. Then again, from what he witnessed between smoke breaks, the other residents often engaged in simple awkward pleasantries whenever talking at Sunny. Like they didn’t know how to navigate the conversation or something, like it was difficult. People were simple enough, so it confused him where the problem was.

So maybe - just maybe - the closest person Sunny had to interact with was Sebastian.

That was just… sad, really. Sebastian’s not one for socializing to begin with. He frowned at the thought.

“I’m just playing the messenger here.” She held up her hands and shook her head. “If you really don’t want to, I’ll be his partner and you can sit out this year. Which would be a shame, ‘cause you already put all the effort into getting changed.” She grinned and nudged him. “I don’t mind switching it up on occasion.”

It was a tempting offer, albeit with the sacrifice of Abigail dancing with another guy, and knowing that it was probably, most likely, definitely actually Abigail he wanted to dance with, not Sebastian. He weighed his options. Sunny practiced, meaning he gave a damn about participating, while Sebastian would rather eat thumbtacks.

“You dance with him,” he said at last, words coming out from behind grinding teeth. “It’s cool.”

Abigail pursed her lips in mild disbelief, but nodded anyhow. “Alright, sounds good. I’ll catch you next year then, Mr. Stompy Feet.”

“That was literally twice!” he complained while she walked back toward Sunny, tittering. Seriously, was she going to hold that against him forever? It’s not like he stepped on her toes on purpose or anything. In fact, he tried extra hard last year to avoid repeating history. He huffed and folded his arms across his chest, watching the conversation unfold between Abigail and Sunny.

Sunny glanced up at Sebastian, their eyes meeting for a fleeting moment - Sebastian resisted the urge to look away - before returning to Abigail, a peculiar look of understanding on his face. Well, okay. At least he didn’t mind Sebastian rejecting his (possible) offer (or misunderstanding), because really, it would just - he didn’t want to stand out as-is, and in this sheltered town, who knew what anyone really thought about two guys (who weren’t friends, let alone, uh, the other option) dancing together.

But he didn’t care what they thought. Not really. It was complicated. He scowled at his roundabout thought circles. He squeezed his own bicep, attention turning to the matted grass beneath his feet. Just this year. Just one year without his annual dance with Abigail, no big deal. She said she’d do it with him next year. He’d live just fine. Easy peasy.

As he stood on the sidelines while the music played, watching the pair dance in with an uncomfortably synchronized grace he could never hope to achieve, he almost believed his own half-hearted assertions.

It’s not Emily at all, is it? he thought, seeing a bright smile flash across both their faces at the dance’s conclusion. Sunny bowed several times in thanks (huh, he never did get a proper dress shirt and pants), Abigail laughed, and they exchanged a flustered, uncoordinated handshake. Someone like that - someone so peculiar yet nice - Sebastian didn’t stand a chance against in the competition for one’s affections. He bit his bottom lip, failing to ignore the next undesirable truth of the day:

He likes Abby.

Well, on the bright side, he clapped along with the rest of the crowd, giving a weak wave back at his friends (and possible new rival), at least I don’t owe Sam money.

Chapter Text

Living in a basement boasted miniscule perks compared to an actual bedroom. It lacked windows, smelled damp on humid days, struggled with the occasional wasp nest infestation, and became freezing in the wintertime with a permanent space heater flicked onto full blast under his computer desk. However, on days like today? He switched Internet tabs and did a quick search of the weather:

Mostly sunny, highs in the “oh Yoba my skin’s melting,” W-NW winds at 5 MPH.

Yeah. He pursed his lips, smug at the thought of everyone else complaining and fanning themselves while trying to relax in their stuffy bedrooms, while his typically undesirable abode stood proud for being a cooled domain. In this season, he reigned supreme as King Comfort - except whenever he needed to brave the baking elements for his cigarette breaks. But other than that? He leaned back in his chair, fingers laced together behind his head. He could get used to this.

(In reality, he had gotten used to it for however many years now, but still. Little things.)

The white cursor flashed in and out of existence within the confines of its textbox on his computer, awaiting his next inputs. He’d been at it for a handful of hours now, toiling away through the muck and grime of a barren, drab website’s design. Whoever these folks commissioned first deserved to have their title of “programmer” stripped away from them. Who constructed code without using comments to describe their indecipherable shorthand variables? Or, for that matter, attached a gajillion inputs to one singular function? No wonder the website struggled to maintain composure whenever someone decided to visit it. He sighed while squinting at the next block needing to be fixed. Someday soon, he really, really needed to up his rates if his competition charged an arm and a leg for this crap.

Then again, most of his competent competition - those who hailed from Zuzu City with a thousand opportunities splayed out before their classy feet - would steal his clients if he upped his prices by even a measly hundred Gs. People from there carried on their shoulders a reputation he could never scrounge up, simply by virtue of living somewhere dense in population. Connections. All of Sebastian’s connections in such a podunk tiny town were a bunch of undereducated, underfunded, and paycheck-to-paycheck type of people. This place didn’t even have a store dedicated to electronics. His first of many computer parts came from a long bus ride out of town.

All the more reason to leave it. He could find great paying jobs in the city - hell, he could daresay guess his work would be respected, what with being self-taught and somehow managing to keep up with the brilliance of other coding maniacs that posted incredible scripts onto forum boards. A skill like that had to mean something, right?

Well, not to anyone he knew. Not right now, at any rate. Maru’s technological skills, being tangible, were praised and heralded as genius-level works. And yeah, Sebastian could, deep down and with great reluctance, admit that her projects required a keen intellect and incredible understandings of engineering. But his projects were just as good, even if it lingered in the background executing codes. Who else in town could turn this garbage into a clean, functional, and sleek website?

The likes of Demetrius gave no damns. Of course. And Mom lacked any comprehension regarding computers. She once tried installing credit card readers into her shop to drum up more business, but found it to be such a hassle that she now had a “G Only” policy. Maru - well, they hardly spoke. One time she expressed interest in what he did, but he brushed it off as her pitying him (or to make herself feel better/prouder of her own career choices).

His leg started jiggling as one palm pressed into his forehead. He slouched over the keyboard, glaring at the punctuation problems causing the program to sport numerous syntax errors in testing. No wonder the links to certain pages refused to open.

In the corner of his screen, a little pop-up window dinged for his attention. He spared it a glance, frown deepening when he realized it wasn’t work-related. Another message from Sam. How many times did Sebastian have to tell him to not IM him during his work hours?

“Hey Sebastian,” he grumbled aloud, “you free this afternoon, I want to have a jam session, I got a crazy idea and we’ve gotta blah blah blah. Blah, blah blah blah, blah blah blah. C’mon, we just saw each other yesterday.” He sighed, minimizing the window. “And you said the exact same thing, but we got literally nothing done.”

Another notification appeared, reading simply: “C u @ 3!”

Oh, so now he was making assumptions that Sebastian wasn’t actually working but messing around on the Internet? He snorted and ignored the message. If anyone bothered to look at his Excel sheet, they’d see how many deadlines he had to devote to. Taking time off during one of the busiest seasons (aside from New Year’s) would tumble his timetables into an inescapable crunch. He liked sleeping in when he could, thank you very much.

His knee banged off his table from jittering too much, the sudden pain jolting him out of his aggravation. He winced and rubbed at the forming bruise, and then grabbed his cigarette pack. Clearly he needed a small break, or else he wasn’t going to finish anything else for the rest of the day.

He rose from his seat, and -

“Gah!”

- promptly stumbled backward, toppling into his chair and pushing it hard into the corner. He landed hard on his ass, cigarettes dropping beside him, and watched his sudden visitor’s arms flail in an equal surprise at his outburst. Sebastian let out a slow, shuddering exhale, repeating an internal mantra of don’t get snappy, don’t get snappy while standing back up. His visitor picked up the cigarettes and offered them meekly. It was hard to stay irritated when he looked so damn apologetic.

“Next time,” Sebastian said, snatching the pack back, “say something, won’t y - ? Uh.”

Sunny rubbed the back of his neck, sheepish.

“That’s - okay, well, at least knock on my desk or something instead of just standing there waiting ‘til I notice you.” Sebastian clicked his tongue at his own error. He’d known the guy for how many months now, and he still said that? “When I get in the ‘zone,’ I don’t really notice my surroundings, and I don’t want a repeat of breaking my ass into two pieces.”

Sunny nodded, brow knitting together as he looked away. He clenched a fist and, in several circular motions, rotated it close to his chest. Sorry. Sebastian shook his head and waved his hand dismissively.

“It’s cool, don’t worry too much about it. We have a system in place for next time you decide to drop by uninvited.”

The wince that crossed Sunny’s face was subtle, but given how trained Sebastian was at discerning Sunny’s emotions to gleen understanding, he still caught it. Too harsh? He sighed and stuffed his hands into his sweatshirt’s pocket.

“No, really, it’s fine. Mom probably said it was okay for you to come down, didn’t she? She does that all the time. I just forgot to lock my bedroom door for privacy, so it’s kind of on me, too.” He gave a half-hearted shrug, hoping the damage control was sufficient to stave off any hard feelings. Sunny wasn’t half-bad compared to some of the other people in Pelican Town; at least he waited until Sebastian reached a breaking time before disturbing him. Unlike some people.

Looking at you, Abby.

He jerked his head toward the bedroom door. “I’m actually gonna take a break now. So.”

Luckily for him, Sunny picked up quick on hints. He nodded a few times before turning and shuffling out of the basement. The stairs squeaked beneath his weight, prompting Sebastian to wonder how the hell he never heard him coming in the first place. Sunny displayed whatever the opposite skill of stealth was. Alarm, maybe? Must’ve made it a real pain to sneak into the kitchen in the middle of the night to steal cookies from the jar.

Huh. I never asked, but I wonder what his family’s like. Sebastian followed Sunny upstairs. Not that it’s my business.

Summer sunlight streamed through the hallway window and beat upon the back of his neck when he emerged from the basement. He squinted at the harsh lighting and rubbed his eyes. Sunny waited by the kitchen entrance, picking at his nails. His jean overalls, slathered in dirt and other crap, looked wet from the calves down.

“Fall into a puddle or something on your way here?”

He lifted his head at Sebastian’s inquiry, then shook it. He pointed toward the front entrance, then, after giving Mom a polite wave, stepped outside. Sebastian glanced at Mom on his way out.

“We’re having casserole for dinner tonight,” she said. “Oh, and Abigail said she might stop by a little later tonight.”

“Did you tell her I’m busy working?”

“I did, but,” she shrugged, “she said she’d probably stop by anyways.”

Go figure. Sebastian rolled his eyes and, after giving Mom a quick two-fingered wave, left the house out into the sun’s unforgiving wrath. He groaned, lifting up an arm to shield his tired eyes, before spotting Sunny picking up his cooler and fishing rod.

“So you went fishing,” he said.

Sunny nodded, patting the bulging sack of something squishy strapped to his belt. Bait, maybe? Sebastian never took interest in the art of fishing, even with all the different bodies of water within the valley. It seemed tedious and for little reward for anyone’s efforts.

“Catch anything good?”

With a shake of his head, Sunny confirmed all of Sebastian’s preconceived notions for the sport. He snorted and began wandering toward the lakeside to have his (earlier than usual) afternoon pick-me-up. The cooler rattled by Sunny’s side, the sound remaining close and steady despite the number of steps Sebastian strode away from his house. He frowned and glanced over his shoulder.

“Uh,” he said, “why’re you following me?”

Sunny stopped mid-step, shoulders lifting. He blinked a few times, appearing suddenly uncertain, and his grip around the rod balanced on his shoulder tightened. Carrying all that stuff made it difficult to use anything to express himself, but he managed somehow by rattling his rod, the hook swaying to and fro. Sebastian wanted to slap himself upside the head.

“Right. Fishing. That makes sense. The lake’s kind of my hideout space since it’s so out of the way, but I guess it might have some weird fish in it worth your time.” Maybe he needed to find a new spot to clear his head at. Not that Sunny annoyed him or anything, but some places were enjoyed best alone. He resumed walking, and when Sunny didn’t, he paused and frowned. “You coming or what?”

Sunny stared at him, confusion riddled all across his face, before trudging along to catch up. He still kept a reasonable distance, even though his long legs could easily cross the distance between them in three strides or less.

True to its title, the secret hideout sported no other people taking up precious space along the shoreline. Sebastian dug his lighter from his pant’s pocket and flicked it on a few times, the flame belatedly catching the tip of his cigarette. He inhaled slowly, feeling the smoke burn his lungs, and stared out over the glittering water. Even with all the shade offered by the trees, the unbearable heat clung to skin, which itched to chuck the sweatshirt aside to breathe.

A wsssh came from his left. The fishing line sailed far across the lake, plopping into the calm waves. Sebastian eyed Sunny, noting the ramrod-straight back and his tightly-drawn lips. And their distance - he set up camp a good ten, fifteen feet away from Sebastian, as if being any closer would cross an invisible boundary somehow. Was he always so skittish? For someone whose presence could hardly be muted, he sure tried his damnedest, didn’t he?

Sebastian coughed.

“I’m not mad at you about earlier,” he said, voice just loud enough over the crying cicadas. Sunny stiffened again before turning toward Sebastian. “I’m just not good at the whole interacting thing. I like my space, that’s all. It’s nothing to do with you. Trust me, compared to the others, you’re actually, like, respectful. Kind of.”

Sunny shifted his weight from one foot to the other, free hand fiddling with the rim of his hay straw hat. He bit his bottom lip, as if digesting Sebastian’s words, before patting at his overalls to find something. He blinked, patted a few more times, then let out a heavy sigh, dejected. He wedged the rod between his knees before pretending to hold a phone to his hear, then making an “X” with his arms.

“You forgot your phone?”

Sunny nodded.

“And you wanted to tell me something,” Sebastian concluded. He flicked the end of his cigarette, weighed his options, and then crossed the distance between them, fishing out his own phone. “Here. Use this. Just don’t throw it into the lake or whatever, I still haven’t paid it off yet for an upgrade.”

Sunny hesitated before taking the offered phone with the Memo app already opened for convenience’s sake. His comically large thumbs struggled with the smaller screen, constantly tapping the backspace button to correct errors. Sebastian resumed staring out at the lake, watching the colorful float dance. No fish wanted Sunny’s bait yet.

He felt a tap on his shoulder, and he cocked his head in Sunny’s direction:

WHEN’S THE BEST TIME TO VISIT SO I DON’T BUG YOU ON ACCIDENT AGAIN?

The question almost left Sebastian dumbstruck. He half-expected a rambling apology or some excuse about how his intrusion didn’t matter because it’s just “computer stuff.” His lips parted, surprised, before looking up at Sunny.

“Uh, I guess, well, I work most days,” he explained, “but I usually take a break after dinnertime and come here. Or somewhere else. That’s pretty okay to come over. If you ever wanted, I mean.” Why was an entirely different question that remained unasked. If Sunny had free time, wouldn’t he rather spend it trying to talk to Abigail? The two seemed pretty close these days. He usually beelined for her on Friday nights at the saloon, offering those sheepish smiles and nervous glances. The memory twinged at his heartstrings, and he tossed the jealousy aside with a huff.

Sunny nodded, then handed Sebastian his phone back. He lifted his fishing pole up properly, winding the line back in before tossing it out into a different spot in the hopes of a bite this time around.

“Why’d you come over, anyways? I never asked.”

Sunny pursed his lips, then gestured between the two of them a few times. Sebastian’s brow furrowed.

“To hang out?” he guessed, to which he was rewarded with vigorous nods. “Oh. Uh, okay. So it wasn’t just to borrow the basement temperatures, then? ‘Cause I wouldn’t blame you if you did, it’s so hot out.”

That gargling laugh escaped Sunny, the tension finally easing between them some. His grin widened as he shook his head.

“Ew, don’t tell me you’re one of those summer lovers.”

The laugh got louder between wheezes and choking sounds, equivalent to dragging a bag of charcoal along gravel. He nodded a few times, and ducked his smile behind his hand when Sebastian wrinkled his nose in feigned disgust.

“How? You like your skin becoming bacon anytime you go out?”

Sunny quirked an eyebrow at that, looking at his own arm. He poked it a few times, pretended to take a bite out of it, then stuck out his tongue in mock repugnance.

“I didn’t mean literally, you weirdo.” Still, Sebastian - despite himself - felt himself grinning at the stupidity. “You’re a farmer, anyways. You’d probably taste like, I dunno, mulch and flowers or something.” He fanned himself a few times, and, after a brief deliberation, stripped off his sweatshirt. Screw it. He needed to stay cool somehow while getting his brain rewired for work. Speaking of - he tapped the end of his finished cigarette to snuff it out, then lit a second one.

It took him a moment to realize he was being stared at while he tied the sweatshirt around his waist.

“Yeah? Take a picture, it’ll last longer.”

Sunny gulped, attention immediately shifting back to his rod. A loose bead of sweat dribbled down his jawline. So he wasn’t immune to summer either, after all. His thumb stroked the reel seat as he squinted out at the float. Then it disappeared beneath the water, the rod’s shaft bending at an incredible speed, almost snapping it in two.

Sunny gawked and Sebastian jerked back in surprise.

“You got something!” he said, internally cringing at his obvious statement. Sunny fumbled to reel in the line, body twisting to accommodate the fish’s sudden, reckless changes in direction in the fight for its life. The spool spun quick, doling out more of the line as the whopper swam toward the center of the lake away from them. Sunny gritted his teeth, yanking back the line by spinning the handle, eyes darting back and forth at the fish’s movements.

It broke the surface for a fleeting moment - what kind of fish is that? - before disappearing again, tugging the line in a complicated, zigzagging pattern. Sunny grunted, heels digging into the ground, biceps bulging as he pulled at the rod, urging the fish to come towards them instead. The line whizzed and whined in defiance as the fish strained, its resistance beginning to wane. The length of the line shortened, closing in toward the shore.

“Heck of a fight,” Sebastian commented. Sunny nodded, slowing down his reeling pace to lessen the burden on the line. The fish’s tail flapped wildly at the surface before becoming eerily still within arm’s reach. “Is it dinner?”

The farmer shook his head. He squatted down and grabbed the line by the float, ready to bring up his haul, when the fish - in a stunning display of revived energy - squirmed and dove away with every ounce of strength it could muster. The line snapped twain, and Sunny, in a brilliant mastery of grace, flopped his arms about before floundering into the - oh, shit!

“Sun - !”

Against better judgment, Sebastian grabbed onto Sunny’s bicep in a feeble attempt to spare the man an impromptu bath. However, Sunny weighed what experts would call a “metric fuck ton,” rendering Sebastian’s good will null and void as they both toppled into the lake with a rapturous sploosh.

Well, at least he wasn’t burning alive anymore.

He sank a few feet, his splayed palms pressing against the clay-laden lakebed within seconds. Since they were close to shore, it wasn’t all too deep. He pushed himself up and resurfaced moments later, coughing up algae-flavored water. Eugh. He did his best wet-dog impersonation as he waddled out of the lake, shaking his limbs to rid himself of the excess. He glanced over his shoulder, watching Sunny pick up his hat and what remained of the rod. Poor thing didn’t stand a chance.

“You have a craptastic sense of balance, you know that?”

Sunny pondered the assessment for a moment while looking over his hat and setting it atop of rock to dry. He gestured to his own body, as if to say, just look at me, could you somehow balance all of this? before wringing his disheveled braid out. Yeesh, that’ll take awhile to dry, given just how much of it he had. Sebastian wondered just how long it extended - to his waist, maybe? He’d never have the patience to grow his own out. He fiddled with his bangs clinging to his forehead, then frowned.

Speaking of being soaked -

“Damn,” he muttered, pulling his waterlogged cellphone out of his pocket. Black screen of death. Nothing a little rice couldn’t fix, hopefully, if all those quikiHows were anything to go by. “That was stupid of me. Good thing you didn’t bring that phone of yours after all.”

Sunny nodded, then froze at the sight of Sebastian’s freshly deceased phone. He dropped his belongings on the banks before patting his pockets and pulling out a frayed leather wallet, now shriveling from lake exposure. He peeled it open and dumped its lackluster contents into his palm: four 100 G coins, a toothpick, a small laminated piece of paper, and some chapstick. He ushered the coins into Sebastian’s hand, head lowered.

“What? What’re you doing?”

He pointed at the dead phone, then the coins.

“Huh? Wait, are you trying to pay for it? That wasn’t your fault, it was the fish’s. Even if it was, four hundred Gs isn’t enough to pay the whole bill.” He tried pushing the Gs back to Sunny, who shook his head in defiance. “What - Sunny, come on, don’t be so stubborn. Take your money back, I can fix it just fine. Take it back - dammit, just - put it towards a housing upgrade or something, I don’t know. Hey.” He glared when Sunny folded his arms across his chest, refusing to accept the Gs back. “Don’t make me use the secret technique on you that Abby uses on me. You won’t like it.”

That got his attention. A brief worried expression crossed his face, hands retracting back to his chest.

“Yeah.” Hopefully he’d take the bait. Sebastian untied the sweatshirt and rung it out in the meantime, waiting for the seed of uncertainty to set its roots. If not, he’d actually have to come up with something. The winds began picking up, a little cooler now; he should’ve left the sweatshirt on the shore, because now it was getting a bit chilly. “Here,” he said, stacking the four coins next to Sunny’s boot, “no take-backs. Or else.”

He sounded like a petulant child. However, his thinly-veiled threat appeared to work when Sunny forlornly put the coins back into his wallet. His pout intensified, displaying his dislike at the outcome, but he seemed resigned to Sebastian’s decision. Good. Taking that money would feel some kind of awful; 400 Gs wasn’t even enough for a pizza down at Gus’s.

He sneezed.

“Well, if I was tired before, I’m sure as shit awake now,” he said. “Mom’s gonna kill me for dragging mud through the house if I don’t die from the onset hypothermia first. It’s a joke,” he added when Sunny shot him an alarmed look, “it’s too hot out for me to get that. C’mon, I’ve got towels back at the house since it’s closer than your farm. Don’t worry, she’d never kill a potential customer, so you’re safe.”

The slight tension in Sunny’s hackled shoulders eased before he gave a quick nod. He scooped up his belongings - the damaged rod crooked awkwardly swinging against his back - and trudged behind Sebastian back to the house. Squishes of soaked clothing jostled with every swing of their arms and legs; it reminded him of the time he and Maru (in simpler days) slam-dunked each other fully clothed into the ocean. Mom gave them an earful and a half for that.

(Maru hadn’t developed into the budding star she was now. Back then, Sebastian could pretend for just a few years longer that he could be a role model, a big brother to be admired. The moment she tasted success, when her genius made its grandiose entrance in a brazen display of homegrown excellence, he toppled from his self-purported title and became but a shadow of his former glory.

Where did it go so wrong?)

He felt a tug on his collar, pulling him out of the way of an oncoming tree. Where the heck did that come from? The perpetual anxious expression adorning Sunny’s features met Sebastian’s perplexion.

“You’re going to go gray early if you keep stressing over every little thing like that,” Sebastian said, shrugging Sunny’s hand off. “That majestic hair of yours is your key selling point to winning Abby’s heart over, so you really should cut that out.”

Aw, crap. That’s not what he meant to say. His words came out heavier than usual, too, laced with simmering resentment at his own inability to get Abigail to look at him instead. It’s not like Sunny knew any better. How could he? He wasn’t there when twelve-year-old Sebastian’s heart became acquainted with that fabled “butterfly” feeling upon seeing her in the right sunset lighting one day. He wasn’t there when Sebastian penned out dozens of half-finished confessions, all crumpled and tossed into the wastebasket. He wasn’t there when, on a day he scrounged up whatever courage he found in the recesses of his nerves, his blurted feelings became drowned out by the loud, cacophonous train whistle intermingling with the crying birds and bending trees and grumbling, distant thunder in a stunning impromptu concert of nature’s unwanted crescendo - a performance crafted only to dissuade Sebastian’s bravery from ever returning.

(“What did you say?” Abigail asked, just barely loud enough over the shrieking metal wheels of the train grinding against the tracks. “I didn’t catch that.”

“I,” he started, then looked to his feet. The train whistled again, further this time, granting him a new opening when it began to rain. He looked up, palm open towards the sky, catching the first plip-plops. “It’s nothing. Forget it.”

And forget she did.)

“Sorry,” he added, realizing a second too late that the elongated pause lasted too long, “that didn’t come out right. You two are,” he waved his hand, “you know, cool. Like. It’s cool. You know? Everyone knows about your crush, so - uh, just. Wishing you luck,” shut up, just shut up, why are you still talking out of your ass?! “and stuff. Yeah.”

For a man so expressive, the sudden blankness and undeterminable countenance in Sunny’s face brought an eerie, uncomfortable atmosphere between them. He blinked a few times, brow furrowing a little, before looking away from Sebastian and staring at the nearby unripened blackberry bush. He stroked his chin, the furrow in his brow deepening, lips parting as if finally parsing Sebastian’s comments.

Then he shook his head. Vehemently.

“No?” Sebastian stared. “No… what? You don’t have a crush on her?”

Many, many nods. So many his neck might very well break at the current velocity of up-down movements. Reality distorted into an alternate plain of existence, one where accepted truths became falsehoods in the matter of a simple gesture. Seriously? The mounting jealousy coiled deep beneath layers and layers of denial shriveled up and died like an unattended houseplant left to wither in the sun.

“But,” he said, confused, “you two have been getting really close lately. Even Sam’s noticed. You’re just friends? Not, you know. Potentially dating in secret?”

The seriousness enshrouding Sunny broke like a dinner plate smashed against a wall in an eruption of that laughter. He clutched at his stomach from how hard he wheezed, body trembling from the force of it. It almost was contagious in its ridiculousness, Sebastian struggling to retain composure despite his (apparently unfounded) worries.

“Also a ‘no,’ I take it?”

After a few deep breaths to calm down, Sunny nudged Sebastian’s shoulder lightly and smiled, his dimples prominent. He then cupped his hands together, thumbs pressing imaginary buttons on an invisible gaming device.

“Uhhh.” Sebastian squinted at the hardest version of charades to play. No vocal hints here. “Games? I know Abigail likes video games. Do you like them, too?”

A nod.

“And because you both like games,” he continued, speaking slowly and watching for any hints in Sunny’s body language, “you two are close because of that? No? Gaming buddies, then?” More nods, followed by Sunny imitating playing on an arcade machine. “Wait, really? You like that stupid-hard ‘Journey of the Prairie King’ thing?”

The pieces fell into place in slow-motion: Sunny, on Friday nights, always came in to see Abigail, and while Sebastian and Sam played pool, they huddled around that machine to have secretive conversations. Except that wasn’t the case at all; Abigail was probably sharing tips on how to play.

They were just having fun, not dating. His distorted views and own shortcomings twisted something totally fine into something to be angry at himself over. He grimaced - this isn’t the first time this has happened, and I still haven’t learned - and looked away.

“Okay,” he said, a new level of awkwardness washing over him. “Didn’t mean to make things weird between you two by saying things like that.”

Sunny waved his hands in front of him, as if to say it’s all good, don’t worry, before nudging Sebastian’s shoulder one more time. He walked ahead of him, jerking his head towards Sebastian’s house with an inquisitive eyebrow raise. Sebastian let out a small sigh of relief and nodded, picking up his pace. The sooner he got out of these wet (and now itchy, eesh) clothes, the better.

Mom’s customer service smile diminished to an aghast expression in record time the moment they came through her door. She forced them to stay dripping by the front entrance while she fetched towels, a slew of Mom-esque admonishments of “dragging mud through my clean floors” and other such complaints echoing from down the hallway. Yeah, yeah; it wasn’t like she washed them, that was all Demetrius. And that man needed more to do other than speak nonsense about the environment or whatever.

“Here.” Mom handed Sebastian a towel first, then gave one to Sunny with a much more gentle look. Always got to make the customer feel at home or some bizarre customer service motto like that. Not that Sunny could even afford her services, judging by his lack of money. “What even happened to you two?”

“A fish tried to drown us,” Sebastian deadpanned. “Didn’t work, obviously. Sunny extracted revenge by eating it raw afterward. You should’ve seen it.”

Sunny gawked, eyes widening, while Mom took no amusement from his joke and shook her head.

“Har har, dear child of mine. I’m sorry, Sunny. My son’s sense of humor is a little, shall we say, on the darker side of things. I know you didn’t actually eat a fish whole.” She sighed and placed her hands on her hips. “Once you’re dried off enough, you should get changed. Is your friend staying over for dinner tonight, Sebby?”

Sunny’s head lifted, surprised at something. Unfortunately, Sebastian had no idea over what. He shrugged. “I have work to do tonight, so probably not. Unless you want to.” He glanced at Sunny, who shrank in on himself again and pointed a thumb towards the front door. “Yeah, we’ll take a raincheck on that one, Mom. He’s got work to do too, I think.”

“Well.” Her service smile returned. “The offer’s open for next time then. Feel free to stop by anytime during our hours if you ever wanted to expand on that farm too, you know. Anyways, I’ll leave you be, there’s something I need to finish working on. Take care, Sunny. And Sebby, don’t forget to take your shoes off before going downstairs.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

With that, she returned to her counter space, fingers dancing on her old school calculator with rehearsed dexterity in crunching sales figures. Sebastian fluffed up his own hair and tilted his head toward Sunny.

“Hey.”

Sunny paused in folding his used towel (for whatever worth it did; the guy wore heavy denim and it remained utterly soaked) and pursed his lips at Sebastian’s call to attention.

“If you see Sam on your way back, could you tell him I’m busy and can’t hang out today? I don’t really feel like talking to anybody else right now. You’re fine,” he quickly added, because really, Sunny hadn’t talked much at all, “but I’m at my limit here for social interactions. Know what I mean?”

He nodded, appearing to understand completely.

“Cool. I’ll pay you back somehow. Maybe I can look up some tips on the Internet for that arcade game you and Abby like to see if it helps somehow.” He shrugged, then gave him a wave. “See you around on Friday, maybe.”

Sunny nodded, and, after setting the folded towel onto the little stool by the door, left the house. Sebastian watched after him for a few moments, then let out a long, exhausted sigh. Good Yoba, he was going to strangle both Sam and himself for buying into the idea that Sunny had romantic interest in Abigail. He stewed in that thought for weeks and almost developed an anger towards a guy who had been only ever nice to him.

Almost too nice.

When he was a kid, there was a classmate like that, too - quiet, polite, always eager to help people and make herself useful somehow. She offered snacks to the kids who didn’t have any, never interrupted anybody before speaking her piece, and checked up on her friends whenever they were down. “Friends,” more like. Because of her appearance - buck teeth, an ugly slope to her nose, sunken eyes and being chubby - no one actually liked her. They called her the “Chubby Chipmunk” and a handful of other schoolground insults behind her back.

Sebastian heard all of them, and never said a word about it. It wasn’t his problem, even if she gave him a cute cartoon frog eraser for his birthday one year.

She disappeared in sixth grade. Everyone said she moved away because of her parents’ work. Then the rumors cropped up, saying that she died. He never heard of a satisfying, definitive answer about what actually happened to her. Stories needed a conclusion, but he figured he’d never know if she was still alive or not.

He hoped she was, deep down. People like that - like her, like Sunny - were few and far between from his experience.

Meandering down toward the bottom of the stairs, he paused in front of his bedroom door.

Just because Sunny didn’t have a crush on Abigail, who was to say the other way around wasn’t true? Liking someone so conversationally stinted, yet so nice - any girl would be an idiot to pass him up. He scowled and pushed the thought aside; unless he asked her directly, he’d just be making assumptions again, and, well, look how that worked out last time. He was half-tempted to ask her discreetly by shooting her a text, but - he looked at his dead phone - now probably wasn’t a good time. Not with so many deadlines on the horizon, at any rate. Work took precedence as always.

Another day, then.

(Just long enough to let the doubt come back in.)

Chapter Text

Part of him should feel bad, walking in on a tension so palpable it tasted like the very tomatoes a disgusted Mom held in her hands. But the pettier part of him, the part that found slight joy in Demetrius’s shortcomings, couldn’t wait to see how the scene unfolded to their new audience who never paid tickets for the performance. The front door shut silently behind him while he untied his shoes - usually he’d just peel them off like the “uncultured slob” title he lived up to, but he wasn’t going to miss the impending shitshow.

“I ask of you one thing. One.” Mom gestured to the tomato bunch, swinging at a dangerous velocity that could have them snap off their vine at any second. “I said fruit. Buy us some fruit, like, oh, I don’t know, watermelon, or strawberries, or even lemons, and what do you get?”

Demetrius let out a gentle yet frustrated sigh. He folded his arms across his chest, forefinger rapping against his bicep. Oh, this was gonna be good. “In my defense, tomatoes are fruit.”

“Tomatoes are - in what universe are tomatoes fruit! You don’t have tomatoes on fruit pizza, dear! They are put on vegetable pizza for a reason, because they are vegetables. This! This right here!” Mom set down a tub of blueberries onto the shop counter, and Sebastian refrained from grinning at the force causing the blueberries to ram against their plastic prison. “This is a fruit! How can you be both one of the smartest men I’ve ever met and also the one person who lacks most common sense?”

“Common sense does not mean correct sense, honey.” Demetrius pulled out his fieldbook, flipping through its pages in a slow, deliberate fashion to indicate his confidence. “In fact, while it’s a misconception to think otherwise, the tomato is a berry harvested from the solanum lycopersicum, originating from Gotoro Empire, believe it or not. Berries, if you recall,” he pointed to the blueberries beside him, “are not vegetables. They are fruit. So, if a tomato is a berry, therefore it is a fruit.”

The best description to call Mom’s face when it burned bright red was “ripened tomato.” Sebastian buried his snort in the crook of his arm, hoping to keep his presence minimal in the ensuing spat. Man, did he choose the right time to break from work or what?

“I can’t believe - of all your so-called ‘fruit’ to think about first, your go-tos are tomatoes?”

“In fairness, when you sent me the text, I just so happened to be standing by the tomatoes at Pierre’s. I thought it would be the most efficient course of action to adhere to your request. So I picked them up and carried on my merry way while shopping for the rest of your list. Next time, be more specific. You agree with me, don’t you?” Demetrius turned, and at first Sebastian froze in place, wondering why the hell Demetrius would ever ask for Sebastian’s opinion, only for his gaze to sweep right over the uninvited spectator and shift to - wait a second -

Sunny, sweating bullets and fidgeting with that worn wallet of his, looked to the ground in being bathed in the spotlight of everyone’s attention. He snuck a glance at Demetrius, then to Mom, before biting his bottom lip in realizing no matter what he says - er, signs - he’d be in a lose-lose situation. How’d he get roped into this? For that matter, why was he here in the first place? Well - Sebastian glanced at the time on his brand new phone (that cost almost an arm and a leg atop paying off the broken one that no rice methods could save) - it was still operation hours for Mom’s shop. And the way Sunny held his wallet, maybe he just entered at the wrong time.

“Yeah, you’re a farmer,” Mom added, hands on her hips. “What do you think? Fruit or vegetable?”

The question lingered over Sunny like an executioner’s axe awaiting to behead him depending on his answer. He visibly swallowed, eyes darting between the fracturing married couple (over food, no less), and his hand lifted up slowly to render his verdict. From here, Sebastian noted the slight tremors racking that very hand, still huddled close to his chest in deliberation of the options before him.

Yeah, no. This was too stupid of an argument to wind up a paying customer over.

“Hey, Sunny.”

Everyone turned to Sebastian now, who pushed his shoes back on without bothering to tie them. He reached over and mechanically patted Sunny in the square of his back. To his credit, the guy only flinched a little in surprise. Time to hone his exemplary lying skills.

(Like father, like son.)

“Sorry to keep you waiting, you know how Sam is. The motorbike’s outside,” he said, jabbing his thumb toward the door, “since you said you’re interested in them. Uh.” He gave his parents a sidelong glance. “Not interrupting anything, am I? You good to come with?”

Mom’s hackles visibly defused after a few seconds, arms dropping by her sides. “No, it’s nothing.” She picked up both the tomatoes and the blueberries, jerking her head toward the hallway. “Come on, dear. Let’s, ah, discuss this in private.”

Demetrius’s calculated expression shifted to one of acquiescence as he pocketed his fieldbook. “Right. Sorry about that, Sunny. I didn’t mean to put you in the middle of that little exercise. Some other time, then.”

Mom and Demetrius shuffled out of the shop, the hall door closing behind them. Sebastian let out a tired sigh before placing the “CLOSED” placard onto the carpentry shop’s front counter and retying his shoes. Sunny remained rigid, wallet still wrinkled in his death grip. After a moment’s pause, Sebastian grabbed the catalogue binder from behind the shopfront and carried it with him, motioning for Sunny to follow him back out into the summer hellscape he just tried to escape a few moments ago.

Sunset graced Pelican Town in a swath of pinkish-oranges, a blanket of incoming clouds rumbling away from them. A shame; there’d only been a good three thunderstorms the whole time so far this year. Sebastian hoped more would be on the way. He approached the garage and, after hefting the door up and pulling out one of the stools within, set the binder onto the stool.

“Feel free to look through it,” he said. “Housing’s on the, uh, tenth page or so I think. Where’d I put my tools again?”

The toolbox, hidden under the ridiculous amounts of robot parts and other blueprints Sebastian had no desire to understand, lacked some of the tools he knew he put in there. Goddammit, Maru. She always, always forgot to put things back where they belonged. He rolled his eyes and found one of the wrenches left on the workbench, and some stray lugnuts just strewn across the floor. And they called him messy? He grabbed the mechanic’s creeper seat leaning against the wall and approached his baby in desperate need of a tune-up.

(“Y’sure you want this one, Seb?” Sam scratched the back of his head. “Isn’t it, like, a super old model or something? There’s a reason the price tag’s so low compared to the rest of ‘em.”

It sat down at the end of a row of used motorbikes, collecting dust that muted its lustrous blue coat. One look at the thing would tell any customer it was the least desirable motorbike in the selection and had probably been sitting there for months, if not years. The marker slashes continuously lowering its prices by thousands of Gs. Sebastian placed a hand on the seat, a comforting leather, before nodding.

“This one,” he reaffirmed. The decision surprised even the salesclerk, who claimed the poor thing was set to be hauled off by the dump guys next month or so, slated as junk since no one wanted it.

A perfect match.)

He rounded the bike, admiring the months of work in restoring her. Getting her back to the house required a truck bed and some straps, and getting her to work required a slew of replacement parts and Googling mechanic how-tos. Before he got her, he had no idea what the hell an “alternator” was, or how to maintain a gearbox. These days, with the right parts, he could keep her running smoother than the newer rigs dominating the asphalt. He wheeled her onto the garage lift and, after a few adjustments, rolled up his sleeves to get to work.

Then he glanced at Sunny, who toyed with the corner of the binder, eyebrows perching together.

“You good?”

Sunny gasped, almost dropping the binder from being snapped out of his reverie. He nodded a few times, slowed a bit, then allowed his head to drop. His fingers touched his chin, then brought his hand out toward Sebastian’s direction. An easy sign, one he mastered from a ViewTube video: thank you.

“Don’t stress it. Mom and Demetrius’s arguments are just tiny build-ups to bigger blow-outs, and it usually works out for them just fine. Didn’t think you’d get involved in the middle of one, though. Figured you wouldn’t mind if I bailed you out somehow.” He set the toolbox beside the creeper. “Once it blows over, I’ll let her know what upgrade or whatever it is you want. Pretty sure there’s a pen in that binder somewhere, so just circle it.”

It’d only been a couple of weeks since Sebastian realized how impoverished Sunny was. The thought that he could actually afford Mom’s commission prices seemed unreal, all things considered. Maybe he grew profitable crops? But how did he afford the seeds? Being a farmer sounded incredibly risky, a lucrative business requiring a myriad of information that Sebastian doubted he’d ever fully comprehend.

He slid underneath his motorcycle, glancing over the parts - okay, that needs to be tweaked, that needs to be drained - and assessing how much maintenance he needed to commit himself to. He never planned on spending his afternoon working on her today, but hey, an extended break here and there never killed anybody. (Even if it did, what did he have to lose?) Besides, he could take her for a spin out to that place.

“You’re from Zuzu, right?” he asked, not really expecting an answer. “Maru told me. I still find it hard to believe anyone would move from there to come here of their own free will.”

The clunks of metal and draining out the old oil filled the pause between them. Birds chirped and trees rustled, accompanied by another page in Mom’s binder flipping over - slow, deliberate, as if in contemplation.

“Sometimes,” he continued, “I take my bike here and just, y’know. Ditch town for an evening, heading for the city. I never actually make it there, ‘cause the drive’s a solid hour and a half away,” the oil gurgled, “but I do look at it from afar from time to time. That’s where I want to - need to - go. Over there, I can do something. Be somebody. But here, my lot’s already been drawn for me, and,” he tipped the bottle and watched the contents fill to the line, “it’s not a great one.”

Complaining to Sunny about his miserable existence also wasn’t in today’s schedule, either, but knowing his audience couldn’t really respond encouraged him. Like screaming at the ocean during a thunderstorm to vent out your frustrations; no one would hear you, nor give a damn at how loud you got or how raw your throat felt afterward. Then again, the ocean and thunderstorms and other forces of nature didn’t have feelings. And while the sun overhead could give less of a damn about Sebastian’s problems in the middle of scorching the earth and bending the orange sky, this Sunny might.

“I’m rambling again,” he muttered, sliding out from under the bike. He draped an arm over his eyes. “I don’t mean to, like, make you think less of a town you just recently moved to or anything. I just don’t understand, is all. There’s not many people here, and no one knows FSL, and you’re constantly struggling to talk to people. I feel like,” he lifted his arm and gave Sunny a sidelong glance, “you’d find people you can get along with in Zuzu.”

Sunny rapped the pen on the binder, head tilting in thought, before circling something in Mom’s catalogue. After he closed it, he pulled out his phone and began typing something:

I MAKE DO JUST FINE. I DO NOT MIND.

“But you shouldn’t have to just ‘make do.’ Trust me, I’ve been there. I’m still there. That’s why I want to leave so bad. Sometimes, there are some places that some people just aren’t, uh, conditioned for? Made for. I don’t know, do you get what I mean?”

YES.

Sunny’s thumbs hesitated over his phone’s keyboard.

I WAS NOT “MADE” FOR ANYWHERE. SO I HAVE TO MAKE IT MYSELF, NO MATTER WHERE I AM.

Another pause. His face remained carefully neutral, but his eyes - Sebastian swallowed - his eyes told another story, something - something he couldn’t see, something so distant and horribly cold. It didn’t match Sunny’s name nor disposition at all.

REMAKE, he typed out, I SHOULD SAY. ZUZU IS A NICE PLACE. YOU WOULD LIKE IT. I CANNOT GO BACK THERE THOUGH, SO MAKE SURE TO SWING BY AND SAY “HELLO” ONCE IN AWHILE AFTER YOU MOVE OUT OKAY? I’D MISS YOU.

Can’t go back? Was he wanted by the law or something? Sebastian stroked the wrench with his thumb, thinking, before wheeling back underneath the bike to buy more time on how to approach the information. It was a weird image, imagining Sunny running from the police after, like, parkouring over rooftops and dealing drugs or stealing cars or other illegal activities as depicted in Great Auto Filch VI. The other part of his message - come say hi after you go ‘cause I’d miss you - that one took longer to chew on.

“I’d have to come back anyways,” he answered at last. “Mom’s here, and she’s not going anywhere. No one else can make pumpkin soup like she can.”

That got a slight relieved smile out of Sunny. He folded his hands in his lap, watching Sebastian change the oil for a few more moments, then blinked in surprise upon remembering something. He removed several G bills and wedged them into the binder’s front pocket. Hard to imagine someone so honest doing something so bad in the city that he couldn’t go back. The temptation to ask for an elaboration almost forced him to bark out the question, but if Sunny wanted to talk - er, type - about it, he would’ve already.

No need to be prying into someone’s personal life. Sebastian hated it when someone did that to him, so he really didn’t want to become even more of a hypocrite.

“Oil’s changed,” he said, sliding out from under the bike. He pursed his lips. “You like motorcycles at all? It’d be kinda funny if I told that to them and you hated these things.”

A hesitant nod. Sebastian took that as a “kind of.”

“I guess they’re a little intimidating if you’re not used to them. Stella’s not too scary, though. A little loud ‘cause she’s a bit older than other models, but nothing too overwhelming. Ever rev an engine before? No? Here.” He lowered the motorcycle off the garage lift and, after unclipping his lanyard off his belt loop, stuck the key into the ignition. Stella hummed to life, an annoyed growling engine tapering off into a gentle purr. “Grab onto this and pull it towards you. Don’t worry, I’m not gonna let her go, she’s not gonna go flying off on you.”

Sunny approached the motorcycle with as great trepidation as an underleveled paladin raising their sword to a level sixty lich lord. His hand dwarfed the throttle when he clasped around it. Then, after glancing at Sebastian for reassurance, he cranked it - and Stella roared in anticipation, wanting to leave tire streaks all over the unmarked streets. Sunny jerked his hand back, eyes wide, hiding his amused smile behind his hand.

“A natural,” Sebastian said, and Sunny ducked his head at the semi-compliment. “If you want to, we could probably go riding sometime, see the neighboring sights and stuff. Stella here can fit two.”

Then again, Sunny might very well be considered as two people built into one, what with his daunting height and growing muscles. Seriously, his poor shirts must get stretched to their limits trying to contain his berth. But the prospect of a ride sprinkled sparkles in Sunny’s eyes, looking down at Sebastian in barely contained enthusiasm. Well. Sebastian removed the keys from the ignition and glanced at the seat. Maybe he could order a wider one with his next paycheck and see if he could get it installed sometime.

“I don’t want to keep you from farming,” he said, clipping the keys to his belt loop. “You put the money in the binder, right? I’ll make sure Mom gets your order. Just make sure to have the materials needed by your house so she can find them, ‘cause she’s a super early bird. Legit, whenever she gets a project, I think she leaves the house at four in the morning, no joke. It’s crazy.”

He rolled the motorbike back into the garage, parking it properly, and then jumped a few times to grab the garage strap to pull the stupid thing down. Sunny reached over after the fourth jump and yanked it down for him.

Sebastian rolled his eyes. “What kind of deal with Yoba did you make to get your height?”

Sunny laughed and shook his head while shrugging, and Sebastian let out a scoff.

Some guys just get all the luck.

(And the ladies’ hearts.)

***

The work on Sunny’s farm gave Mom an excuse to leave the house for a few days. Sebastian often found Demetrius in the kitchen, pouring over cookbooks or manuals or whatever other non-fiction drivel he liked to read in his spare time. Whenever Sebastian needed to meander by him, they exchanged curt, polite nods, never making eye-contact and hardly acknowledging one another’s existence while dancing around each other to get whatever they needed. Mom was the cook in the household. When she was off on projects, it was up to them to fend for themselves.

Sebastian wandered up from the depths of his basement one morning (another nightmare infested his sleep, so a little earlier than usual) to see Demetrius grinding coffee beans. He glanced at Sebastian, gaze lingering for a solid ten unnecessary seconds, before adding two more scoops of beans into the grinder.

“Good morning,” he said.

Did hell just freeze over?

“Uh,” Sebastian ever so eloquently replied, “morning.”

“Maru’s already off to the clinic.”

“Oh.” All seven levels of them?

The grinder whirred for a too small handful of seconds. He dumped the remains into the filter before flicking on the coffee maker and pulling down one - two?! - mugs. Uh-oh. Sebastian assessed his running away options before him - except 1.) he was still fully dressed in his pajamas, and 2.) his shoes were downstairs, meaning he’d have to brave the outdoors barefoot. Not ideal.

“I’m making omelettes,” Demetrius said. “Want one?”

“Not a huge fan of eggs.”

“Right.” Another lengthy pause. “How about an everything bagel with cream cheese? I’ll toast one for you.”

“I can do it myself.”

“Right,” he said again, and the uncomfortable lull returned. Sebastian shuffled over to the fridge, wondering if the nightmare had decided to play an Extended Edition with special features such as “Awkward Mornings w/ Demetrius” found in the secret “Extras” menu. He pulled out one of the bagels and shoved them in the toaster.

“You take yours black?”

“Mm.”

“That’s healthy of you,” Demetrius said, pouring the coffee into each mug. “Maru loves to load hers with sugar. Defeats the purpose of a good brew in my opinion.” He set each mug on the kitchen table, one on each opposite end for ample space. The eggs hissed and popped in their oil, and Demetrius flipped one half atop another to smother the vegetable contents into a yolky confinement. It didn’t look half bad, but nowhere near the same skill level Mom had.

Sebastian buttered his bagel and sat - for the first time in ages - at the kitchen table. When did the tablecloth get changed out for a sunflower print? Last time he remembered, it was pansies. Or daffodils? So much yellow, a total clash to his usual color preferences. Mom loved those sorts of things though.

Demetrius took a seat across from Sebastian, steam wafting off the omelette, fork and butter knife set delicately on either side of the porcelain. His forefinger tapped twice onto the table before leaning forward.

“So,” he said.

“So,” Sebastian echoed, taking a hearty chunk out of his bagel. The faster he ate, the less time he needed to entertain Demetrius’s elongated games. If he was in trouble (probably for something he didn’t even do), then he just wanted to get this over with. He paid rent on time, he covered his own expenses, he cleaned up once in awhile - what else could it be?

“So,” he said again, then exhaled slowly, “as you know, the night of the jellyfish migration is coming up. Meaning your mother and I’s anniversary, too, is coming up.”

Already? Sebastian glanced at the calendar on his phone - summer whooshed by like a thunder-bumper, hardly sticking around long enough to be memorable. He gave a curt nod and chewed off another third of the bagel. He made certain to smother the certain excitement that came alongside the night of the moonlit jellies; it was the one day a year that made summer worth putting up with its bullshit. The sea lit up, and -

(“It’s a gift from the mermaids,” Dad whispered as they stood upon the docks, watching the jellyfish sway their glowing bodies beneath the calming waves, “in thanks for doing our part to keep the oceans cleaned. So we must never, ever throw trash in there, understood?”)

Well. Sebastian pushed aside the memory and swallowed. It was pretty cool, not much else to it, but he’d daresay claim he loved it, really. Not that Demetrius needed to know, because the less that man knew, the better.

“I was wondering if I could get your opinion on something.”

“My opinion?”

“Yes, Sebastian. Your opinion. Believe it or not,” Demetrius said, a peace offering of a smile stretching on his face, “I do value it in these sorts of matters.”

“I can count the number of times you’ve asked for my opinion on no hands. Or feet.” Sebastian frowned, bagel abandoned as he leaned back in his chair in resignation. “But if it means leaving the kitchen faster, sure, I’ll humor you. What is it?”

The fleeting disappointment flickering across Demetrius’s face did not go entirely unnoticed, but Sebastian gave less damns than a frog making a decision on a bug-filled menu. He reached into his jean’s pocket, pulling out a small and fuzzy black box, before sliding it across the table. Looked expensive already. Sebastian quirked an eyebrow, glancing at Demetrius before sighing and reaching over to pick it up. Didn’t weigh much, whatever it was.

“Jewelry?” he hazarded a guess.

“I know she doesn’t have a fondness for it,” Demetrius explained, “but I thought this would be something, ah, that she could make an exception for.”

“She always makes exceptions for you,” Sebastian groused, opening the stubborn box like a seagull desperately failing at peeling apart a clam. The lid snapped upright, exposing the piece beneath the overhead kitchen light: a glistening, almost calming shade of blue stood out in a silken white blanket. Definitely not a ring, considering the piece looked all too hefty for that, so a necklace, maybe? A pendant?

The realization then gobsmacked him.

“You,” Sebastian managed, “found one?”

“Not just one, but two.”

“This is - how did you - but these aren’t supposed to even exist, are they?” Mermaids didn’t exist. They didn’t, so said the rational part of him, so said the lies Dad spewed from his grotesque mouth on a daily basis, so said every fairytale lining the shelves of Pelican Town’s crotchety library. He lifted the fabled mermaid’s pendant delicately from its resting place, gawking at the shell’s handcrafted designs riddling its exterior. It looked old, like it hailed from one of the many hidden underwater cities.

(“They’re massive,” Dad said, spreading his arms wide. “Larger than Zuzu, larger than the whole Ferngill Republic. The mermaid civilizations are intricate as they are vast, my boy, and stunningly beautiful. Any mortal who visits them can be tempted to live there forever with our fishy kin.”

Little Sebastian didn’t understand half of the words, but it sure sounded cool.

Lies always sounded cool.)

“Studying the local environment has its perks in addition to its banes. I couldn’t believe it myself when I uncovered it.”

“Where? Or how, or - yeah, no, Mom’ll love it, you don’t have to worry about that.” Hell, Sebastian loved it (not that he’d ever tell anyone). He put it back into the box carefully, then let the lid snap shut.

“I was studying mussels, which, as you know, have the tendency to live under the sand. One particular spot had a worm infestation, which I thought was odd, so I decided to dig around them to see if there were any particular causes for their nesting. Lo and behold,” he gestured to the box, “I found them buried close to that statue on the beach. An incredible find. Part of me knows I should offer the findings to Gunther, but…”

“And let them collect dust in that shitty museum?”

“Language, Sebastian.”

“Sorry, absolute shitastic museum? There’s no displays over there, anyways, so what’s the point of giving that weirdo something he’ll just end up losing again anyhow?”

Demetrius sighed and rubbed his temples. “I just believe your mother would get more value than it being on display over there, yes. I don’t consider myself a very selfish man most times, so I thought this time it would be all right. Your mother,” he smiled, “is a wonderful woman, all things considered, and deserves the world.”

“Gross.”

“I’m just saying how I feel. I know we fight a lot, her and I, but we always work through it somehow. Weather the storm together. Before her, I never experienced such feelings with anyone else, so I want this to last.” He picked up the box and ran his thumb over the lid. “And while I’m at it, I know we are not, ah, particularly close at all.”

“Understatement of the century,” Sebastian muttered.

“But,” he added, a little louder, “I do want to work on that, too. I don’t necessarily need you to see me as your father, Sebastian. I wouldn’t ask that of you. But I do want us to be family anyhow. Do you know what I mean?”

This conversation soured fast, like it always did. His leg began jittering as he picked up the bagel’s remains to buy himself some time away from answering the rhetorical question. Yeah. Yeah, he did know what Demetrius meant, but it was too little too late for that. Sebastian wasn’t ten anymore, he was in his mid-twenties, and that age difference bore a weight of memories not quite leaning in Demetrius’s favor. He stared at his untouched coffee.

“I’m sure Maru feels the same,” he continued, apparently oblivious (as always) to Sebastian’s discomfort. “We do want to be a part of your life.”

Upon hearing those words, a frayed cord within him, tenuously anchoring his mounting anger, snapped.

“How many times have we had this stupid talk again? How many times do I need to remind you. You never wanted me to be a part of your lives, remember?” Sebastian rose from his seat, hands splayed onto the tablecloth, a sea of sunflowers smiling uncaringly up at him. “It’s always ‘Maru’s a role model in school, why can’t you be the same?’ or ‘Why can’t you apply yourself in the things that actually matter?’ It’s not that you want me in your lives,” he spat out, the corner of his upper lip twitching, “but some idealized me you wished you had in your life. Newsflash, Demetrius: I’m not changing for anybody - and especially not for someone who was never in my corner.”

“I,” Demetrius started, toying with the handle of his mug. He let out another sigh. “I know,” he said, “that my expectations favored Maru when you two grew up. I didn’t quite understand you.”

“Because you never bothered to understand me. You thought it was just easier to give up on the lost cause and pour all your adoration into the child you actually gave a damn about to make yourself feel better about being a parent, then pat yourself on the back and say, ‘Oh, I did all I could’ or something. Not one person,” dear Yoba, he didn’t want to talk about this, he didn’t want to place all these feelings on such a brazen display for examination, but here he was, chipped nails digging into the table, spittle flying from his lips, “in this stupid town ever understood me ‘cause I’m just not worth the goddamn effort.”

“That’s not - look, Sebastian. I know where I’ve mishandled my duties as a father figure in your life, and I really - I mean it - I really wish I could fix that. You’re worth the effort because we care about you.”

“Since when.” Sebastian looked up at Demetrius, staring at him dead-on in a silent challenge. “Since when. If I were never born, would your life have changed at all for the worse, or would that’ve made all your mistakes just disappear? You don’t care about me, you only care about your own feelings and pushing them onto me. I don’t owe you anything or to be a part of your picturesque family-man life.”

Demetrius’s lips parted, shock riddled all over his face. Good. Screw him. Screw him, and Maru, and this stupid town, and his own stupid life. Nobody gave a single damn, nobody cared if he had disappeared with Dad that night, Mom could have moved on properly and settled down with Demetrius in a perfect fucking family that never, ever, ever needed him. No one did, not even his friends, not himself, not a single fucking -

I’D MISS YOU.

Sebastian let out a low, shuddering breath, his whitened knuckles easing and releasing the fists he made somewhere during his tirade. He blinked a few times, staring into the coffee cup, a dark reflection looking back at him and his mess.

I’D MISS YOU, Sunny had typed out, apropos of literally nothing. Not a single reason why, either. Just a simple statement, comprised of ten black characters on a digital, ever-changing landscape in a Memo app, yet it weighed so heavy on his shoulders in that one moment of clarity.

“Sebastian?” Demetrius tried.

“Shut up. Don’t talk to me right now. I need - I need a second.” He slumped back into his chair and gripped the mug like a lifeline, both legs jittering now. He needed a cigarette. That nightmare wasn’t just a rehash of the past, but a premonition of a shitty day. He took a slow sip, just so his body had something to do other than collapse in upon itself. He heard movement - the slide of a chair, the fridge door opening, careful footsteps going to the sink and depositing the dishes, then reapproaching the table - but it didn’t quite register as time halted into a suspended nothingness.

He took another sip. It tasted like air.

“I didn’t mean for the conversation to turn out this way.” Demetrius slid another plate in front of Sebastian, filled to the brim with little crackers, cheese, and - was that fish? Looked like fish. Smelled liked fish, too, and it smelled good? “But I understand where you’re coming from. Can you just think about it for a little bit? About maybe talking this out. If your mother and I can do it, I’m sure we could probably do it, too. Not today,” he added quickly, “but someday.”

How many years did it take to get to this point, and why now? It didn’t make sense, unless Demetrius had pondered this for a while and just decided to shoot his shot for - what, a familial relationship between them? It was so pathetic it was funny. He almost wanted to laugh.

Instead he croaked out, “No promises.”

“I’ll take my chances on that.”

The snack didn’t constitute as breakfast food by a long shot, but it was an acceptable truce offering nonetheless. Sebastian took two or three or five, he lost count, while Demetrius read the newspaper in silence. For a moment - a fragment of a second - the scene felt what they should have been like a long time ago: an awkward new dad trying to ease into Sebastian’s life.

“Thanks,” he muttered, scrambling to get out of his chair and away from the new suffocating sensations threatening his established normalcy, “for the food.”

“Anytime. Well,” Demetrius chuckled, “I say that, but your mom actually made it for us before she left. Make sure to thank her when you see her, too.”

Sebastian made a noncommittal grunt before absconding into the safer depths of the house, hiding from whatever that disaster of an interaction was. Never again. He couldn’t live through another of Demetrius’s diatribes. He locked the basement door behind him, forehead pressing against the cool wood, fingers loose around the knob.

The day he left for Zuzu and never looked back seriously couldn’t come fast enough.

(I’D MISS YOU.)

Well.

Almost never.

Chapter Text

Sunny was, for lack of a better term, strange.

The moniker followed the farmer ever since his presence graced Pelican Town: a tall, shy, eager-to-please guy with a penchant for going into dangerous areas (such as the mines, wandering through the forest at near-sundown, entering the abandoned community center overwrought with vines for hours at a time, and living in a godforsaken shack for how many months before deciding living up to fire code might actually be a good idea). He conversed with papers, pens, or his cellphone (if he remembered it), hardly spoke about himself (the number of factoids Sebastian could list off encompassed all of one hand), and gave presents at the drop of a hat without rhyme or reason (somehow knowing exactly what anyone would like. Even Shane. Even Shane, and who would’ve thought that alcoholic enjoyed anything other than a beer).

Aside from that summation of his seemingly simplistic character, all other assumptions of Sunny’s personality were derived from hearsay.

One assumption, derived from Ms. 2 Gud 4 U who always tee-hee’d and batted her doe eyes at that Alex guy, was that he “lacked total fashion sense” because “he makes his own ugly hick-clothes from, like, weirdo ingredients.” Another came from the homeless guy, saying he was a “great listener” and “didn’t judge.” Mom said Sunny never complained about the noise she made renovating his withering deathtrap, but always came back from working as “a complete mess” and with “an utter disregard for his own health.”

No one ever mentioned “the look,” though: the swirl of stormclouds that crept into Sunny’s eyes every now and then, tumultuous and dark. Sebastian half-wondered if maybe he imagined it, but in their occasional conversations (or, well, Sebastian chattering at Sunny while Sunny listened), whenever “Zuzu City” and Sunny’s prior life before farming came up, the look happened, followed by an immediate subject change.

“I think,” he mused aloud, fingers resting on the keyboard, “something must’ve happened to him.”

“What?” Sam glanced up from tuning his guitar. “Sorry, I wasn’t paying attention, what’d you say?”

“To Sunny,” Sebastian continued, plunking a few notes without regard to melody. “I think something happened back in the city and that’s why he’s here now.”

“You’re doing the thing again.” Sam plugged the AUX cord into the amp, then into the electric guitar. He flicked the amp on before strumming the strings - still sounded a little off - before twisting the tuning keys a quarter. “Whenever you get into something, you’re always, like, making theories about shit. Remember that, crap, what was her name, that lady in that series you like? Gully?”

“Holly.”

“Yeah. You got super invested in her arc that when they offed her, you burned the entire series. Abby could’ve killed you for that.” He strummed the guitar again, nodded, and turned the amp’s knob up a few notches. “And then you did it for Abby once you got really into her -”

“Ugh, shut up - ”

“- like,” Sam gestured vaguely to dismiss Sebastian’s dissent, “super into her, man. You came up with that whacked idea that Pierre’s not even her dad in that fantasy world of yours. I mean, I agree, ‘cause they don’t look anything alike, but my point is.” He waggled a forefinger. “I’m seeing a pattern here.”

“I’m not making theories about Sunny.”

“Do you hear yourself sometimes? You legit just said,” he played a few cords, “you think something happened to him in the city. Not that you know, you think.”

Sebastian jabbed an F-major key in rapid succession to announce his displeasure at Sam’s valid point. Yeah, okay, but he wasn’t the only one. Sunny was the first interesting thing to happen in Pelican Town in ages. The rumor mill needed new blood, and Sunny spilled tons of it with his simultaneous mystery and meekness. And - Sebastian’s hand roamed up the keyboard to a higher octave - Sunny kept appearing in Sebastian’s life, meaning he was a new curiosity his brain itched to figure out.

Was that weird? Probably. Creepy? Maybe. But it was a means of protection. The more he knew about someone, the better judgment he could make about whether or not the person would actually stick around or stab him in the back. Or so he told himself.

“Who cares about his past, like, for real though?” Sam continued, flipping through his falling-apart music notebook. “He’s chill, doesn’t cause any problems. Hell, the guy stood up for me when I was grinding on my skateboard the other day to the mayor, of all people. Shoulda seen the look on the old man’s face. If he’s happy here,” he propped up a few music sheets on his cheap music stand, “then that’s all that matters, yeah? Wanna do Tycoon Goons as a warm-up?”

“I guess,” Sebastian replied, answering both questions in one fell swoop. Was there any happiness to be found in Pelican Town? Sure, it purported a picturesque veneer of an idyllic, quiet life, but - Sam shredded through the chorus, and Sebastian’s fingers flexed to keep up - beneath it all lay a population of trapped fuck-ups always running away from themselves or their problems. And given the perpetual complacency of “it’s always been this way,” nobody’s bothered to change for over a decade.

Not that he could talk. He bore his own brunt of problems he wanted to ignore, yet pondered over endlessly in a constant means of self-hatred.

“Sounds good.” Sam beamed after the warm-up, glancing at his trusty guitar with fondness. “Man, we’re gonna throw a concert sometime soon and we’re gonna kick so much ass, dude. Everyone’ll put respect to our names.”

“Maybe to yours.”

“Last I checked, you’re in our band too, Seb. If I get praise, so’ll you. And if you don’t?” Sam patted his bicep and grinned. “I’ll make them, somehow. Nobody’s gonna slander my bestie’s piano jamming on my watch.”

Most people, sometimes including Sebastian himself, wondered how the hell they got along: Sam being the pinnacle of “social butterfly” and Sebastian being a “basement recluse.” Butterflies and spiders weren’t meant to go together. For whatever reason, Sam, despite his own family drama to deal with (like his dad being shipped off to war), continued to be the most upbeat person he knew. And he decided, somewhere in the span of their knowing each other, Sebastian was worthy of being in his gravitational pull of a social circle. And while Sebastian griped here and there about Sam’s tendencies to go overboard with chit-chat, he knew that deep down he wasn’t a bad guy at all.

“Wanna try Tropicala next?”

“Tropi-what now,” Sebastian replied, pulled out of his musings.

“Y’know. The funky twangy song that Sunny really liked when he stopped by that one time. Figured since we’re talking about him, we might as well rehash it.”

“We need Abby for the drums for that one.”

“Ohhh, right. Shoot.” Sam’s brow furrowed, his dejected pout aimed at the ceiling. He played a few absentminded cords and shifted his weight in his seat. “Speaking of Ab, you asked her out to the great jelly migration dance thingy coming up yet?”

Sebastian grunted, leg beginning to jitter. “She’s probably already asked someone else to hang out with.”

“Someone e - oh. Oh, I know what you’re thinking.” Sam waggled his forefinger and tsk’d. “I deduce you’re thinking something like, ‘She’s already asked that dreamboat Sunny because I think she’s totally into him, so why should I bother?’ Am I on the nose? Is my lead striking hot iron?”

How did he figure stuff out so well without any insinuations? “What, got sick of the historical dramas and binged on film noirs instead?”

“Well put, my glum chum!” He grinned ear-to-ear, clearly enjoying himself at the expense of Sebastian’s inner agony. “Verily, I will forthwith place your worries to rest. See, I have found information of great import that may put your very heart at ease about your, ah, competition.” He stroked his chin, eyes closing after he set aside his guitar. “For you see! I always keep an ear out about the hip-happenings in our dear old Pelican Town for musical inspiration, and what do I find out?”

“You sound like a walking thesaurus. Quit that.”

Sam deflated, shoulders sagging. “But don’t I sound, like, so much smarter when I do that? All the cool detectives in the movies sound so suave. But yeah, anyways.” He laced his fingers behind his head, spinning slightly in his chair. “I doubt any guy here in town has anything to worry about their girl-crushes around Sunny, ‘cause, fun fact: he’s gay.”

Two syllables. It took all of two syllables to transform an entire narrative Sebastian constructed about the wooing of Abigail and the steady slowburn of Sunny’s growing feelings into an utter farce. He jerked away from his piano, eyes widening, before the corner of his upper lip twitched. “What,” he breathed out, “did you say?”

“Dude’s gay, man. Like, into other dudes, I’m pretty sure. Wanna know how I figured that one out?” Sam continued babbling in his carefree cadence like he didn’t just impart a world-shattering crumb of information that he probably shouldn’t have uttered in the first place without permission. “So like, remember how I told you that me and him were fucking around while I was skateboard practicing?”

Sunny’s gay? Sebastian stared down at the sprawling white and black keys before him, stretching like a toothy cheshire grin back up at him. He’d never met a gay person - well, an outed gay person (because let’s be real, Elliot was one, two hundred percent) - in real life before. “Uh-huh,” he replied, realizing he let the conversation stall for several moments too long and desperately wanted Sam to keep talking for once.

“Well, I was some kinda surprised when he sided with me about the whole grinding thing, right? So I was like, ‘Yo, that was real nice of you, man,’ and then he did that whole bashful smile thing, right? And he typed out on his phone something about an ex-boyfriend of his also having been a pro skateboarder. And then,” he continued, leaning forward as if sharing conspiratol information, “I overheard Haley telling Alex while he was practicing that she found it unsurprising Sunny’s never had a girlfriend before. Which means…”

“He’s only into men,” Sebastian finished, the memory of the flower dance choosing an inopportune time to resurface:

(“I think he wants to dance with you. Or me,” said Abigail, unaware of how very wrong she was, “I couldn’t really tell.”)

“Right? So yeah. No worries about the Abby front. You should ask her to the jellyfish thing.” A pause. “Seb? You okay in there, man? You want a cigarette break or something? I know we just started practice and all, but you look, like, super pale all of a sudden.”

He’s gay. A part of him felt - well, he didn’t quite know how to describe it. Weird, really. He felt weird about it, and a little uncomfortable. What if Sunny was hitting on him this whole time? Sebastian didn’t swing that way at all, and he hated the whole awkwardness that came with rejections and promises of staying friends falling apart. He frowned and shook his head - no. No, that couldn’t be it. Sunny was, gayness aside, just overall nice. A nice dude who did nice things and just chilled out with Sebastian from time to time. Hell, he chilled with Sam, too. It didn’t mean that he was hitting on them or anything, right?

But the memory of the dance - that lingered in the back of his head, begging to be analyzed, to be splayed out on his mind’s operating table and to dissect every hazy moment to try to gain further clarity. Sure, he danced with Abigail in the end, but what if - what if - he wanted to dance with Sebastian, after all?

What then?

The first question that emerged wasn’t what he anticipated to be (What do I do about this and how do I prevent it in the future?), but instead a more alarming, a more curious standpoint:

Why me?

“Seb.”

Sebastian blinked and looked up to see Sam squatting in front of him, concerned.

“You good, man? Feeling alright? Need a Joja Cola or anything?”

He licked his lips, throat growing dryer than Abigail’s sense of humor, and gave a half-hearted shrug. “Cola sounds good, sure. Just out of it today is all.”

“You and summer get along like water and oil, dude.” Sam grinned and gave a thumb’s up as he shuffled toward the bedroom door. “I’m surprised you haven’t poofed into a pile of ashes whenever you decide to come over. Be right back.”

The door clicked behind him, leaving Sebastian to stew in his thoughts. He rubbed the sweat off the back of his neck, the jitter to his leg amplifying. The only real way to figure out Sunny’s true intentions was to straight-up (hah) ask him directly. But how the hell was he going to segue into that topic? Hey man, heard from Sam you’re into guys. Do you have the hots for me and can you, like, maybe not, because I’m sorry, I’m not into that. Cool? Cool. Yeah, no, that wasn’t going to go over well at all. He didn’t want to sound like a total prick when talking about it. If he hurt Sunny’s feelings, that would feel multiple levels of wrong.

Maybe he could bring it up subtly. Somehow. He scowled at the piano. Right, sure, because him and the art of conversation went swimmingly well at all times. It’s just, the last thing he wanted was for Sunny to interpret Sebastian being into him, and, on that wrong social cue, make a move like - like…

Like what, like kissing him or something? How would that even work. The guy would have to bend over at a stupid amount of degrees just to make that feasible. Their height difference, astronomical as it was, did not make for a comfortable position. And Sunny seemed too shy to do that, so he might instead link his pinky with Sebastian’s instead. Maybe while getting trapped in the rain, sharing an umbrella, and Sunny giving Sebastian a glance before their hands brushed together, then linked, and Sebastian, well, he’d look up at Sunny like he grew six heads in mortification.

Outside, a low grumbling quelled the incessant bird chirps and cicada cries. The blue sky’s dominance slowly got chipped away by a blanket of storm clouds, the first plip-plops of rain striking against the window.

“Fresh outta the fridge,” Sam announced, setting the cola down next to Sebastian. He glanced out the window and squawked. “Shit! I promised Mom I’d bring in the laundry! Lend me a hand, will you?”

“How much you paying me?”

“Another cola. Please? Pretty please? Dude, don’t make me beg when it’s gonna start pouring any second.”

“Alright, alright. Just this once.” And only for a distraction from the neverending spiral of hypothetical situations Sebastian definitely did not want to find himself in.

***

Said-situation emerged a few days later, in the cool and damp on the docks overlooking the sea; however, not quite as how he imagined it.

The summer’s rainy season arrived in full-force, drenching Pelican Town and draining it of all its usual hustle and bustle to a calm, comfortable silence. This particular storm came out of nowhere, prompting him to run right to the beach in record time. He sat at the edge of the dock, his sweatshirt carrying ten pounds of water as the thunderstorm ebbed, the cloud-to-cloud lightning hardly inciting an ounce of fear about getting struck in him. His gaze remained fixated on the churning waves, waiting.

He always waited, even if he knew, deep down, it was absolutely pointless.

Still. He lit a cigarette, hiding the flame from the rain until it caught the tail, and inhaled deeply. The child in him remained eager, not ready to admit defeat, not ready to accept his hopes getting quashed beneath reality’s heel.

It’ll be today, the child whispered, he’ll come home today.

Another brilliant flash of lightning lit up the black sea, which bore little but white caps and seaweed tossed around in the surf. He exhaled, smoke dissipating the moment it ushered out from his lips.

Or tomorrow, the child added quietly, hopefully, tiredly, it could always be tomorrow.

The thunder announced its displeasure in a shuddering roar, one that could shake the foundations of the neighboring buildings. What followed was a misplaced thud vibrating through the dock’s planks from a hefty weight falling. Sebastian broke his gaze from the ocean and tilted his head back -

The lightning illuminated Sunny, scrambling to get to his feet, his bag spilling its contents all over the slippery wood. When another clap of thunder resounded across the ocean, Sunny jerked, flinching, hands pressed hard to his ears, eyes wide with abject terror. He glanced up at the sky, bottom lip quivering, before haphazardly trying to pick up his belongings to get out of there as soon as possible.

Two thoughts occurred to Sebastian then:

I really don’t want to deal with this right now, followed by,

You’re telling me you can go into the mines with no problems, but you’re terrified of thunderstorms?

He cast a glance back at the ocean, which spit spray at his feet, before snubbing out his soaked cigarette. No progress today. The mirage of a child peered at Sebastian in horror at him abandoning their mission. He approached Sunny, who had yet to even notice the presence of another person in the storm, and picked up one of the belongings appearing to be a smooth, glassy stone, cold to the touch and almost spherical. Huh. He looked to Sunny, mouth opening to say something -

And was greeted with an inhuman squeak of surprise, followed by the tumbling of a man akin to a foal not quite used to its limbs. Sunny gawked up at Sebastian - a weird turn of events - before letting out a heaving, shivery sigh of relief.

“Scared you?” Sebastian guessed, answered with several rapid nods. “What’re you doing out here if you’re so damn scared of thunder? Here, just - ” he began gathering what remained of the lost contents, handing them to Sunny’s quaking hands in quick succession, “ - get all this, and get back home already.”

The next catastrophic boom brought the bag pressed flush to Sunny’s chest, his entire frame shaking like trees in the outskirts of a hurricane. Instead of moving, like one ought to do, his body curled in up on itself, palms not moving from his ears. Not just a fear, but a phobia, it looked like. Sebastian’s frown deepened - seriously, how can you be scared of this? - before catching glimpse of Sunny’s aghast face hidden by his arms, eyes staring at nothing.

His lips were moving. No sound but air came out, but they were moving in a repeated sequence. One two three, one two three - Sebastian squinted to make out the silenced syllables - I’m-sor-ry. I’m-sor-ry. I’m-sor -

krrshshhhboOOooomrrrshhh

- ry.

He didn’t want to deal with this. In the textbook of Sebastian’s life, he made himself scarce whenever somebody needed help, or needed a hero, or anything like that. He didn’t play hero. He was an NPC, one with a set, disinterested dialogue to make himself as unmemorable as possible, all to achieve order in his own head.

(“Happy birthday!”

The chubby chipmunk placed a see-through satin baggy filled with little cartoon frog erasers onto Sebastian’s school desk. She beamed at him, her buckteeth exposed to the other ravenous school children desperate to climb the pecking order for their own game by shoving her down into the dirt.

“You like frogs, right?” she asked, pushing up her rotund glasses. “You have a frog lunchbox, so, um, I thought you might like these. Sorry it’s not much.”

Older Sebastian would have asked why she even bothered, severing their link for good without any misinterpretation of his intentions.

Little Sebastian replied, “I love them. Thank you.”

And he left their blooming friendship at that, no longer invested, no longer wanting to get involved - even when she turned to him with hopeful eyes one time in the hall when the other girls got rough.

He turned away, and did nothing. The erasers remained in his desk, though, throughout the rest of grade school.)

Getting involved meant giving a damn. He didn’t. He didn’t. But his synapses, his blood, his muscles, his limbs moved before he could rationalize himself away from the impending mess of whatever this was. Instead, he tore the bag from Sunny’s hands, zipped it up, slid it onto his back, and took a limp Sunny by the wrist to run for it - run far, far, far from the beach, through the streets, through the woods, through the tall grasses, through the weave of toiled earth and bending blueberry vines. He did not stop until he reached a brand new door, one lacking termites and cracks, and found it to be locked.

“Keys,” he said, only to get no response, nothing. With a grunt, Sebastian resorted to his other bag of potentially illegal tricks, pulling out a few tools and jostling the lock until it gave in.

(“It could be useful in case he gets locked out,” Dad explained when Mom asked him why the hell he would teach a five-year-old lockpicking skills. “You never know!”)

The door swung open, and Sebastian dragged Sunny inside before slamming it back shut. Mom’s renovations reinforced the shack into a decent hovel, and in any other instance, he might have admired her handiwork.

Now, though - after nearly tripping over the stupid cat - he had bigger fish to fry.

“Sunny,” he started, releasing his wrist. His arm swung back to his side, unresponsive. Here, the thunder sounded less prominent, less of a focal point to fixate on. Sebastian’s shoes squished against the rug to cross the distance between them. “Hey,” he said, snapping his fingers in front of Sunny’s face. “Hey.”

It took a few snaps before he received his first blink in response. Slow, languid, tired. Then a gasp, a balk of his head, and a quick surveying of their surroundings. The guy literally disassociated for however long it took to get from the docks to his house.

“You with me?”

Sunny’s attention returned to Sebastian. His eyes remained wide, but he nodded once nonetheless. Another roll of thunder swept through the silence, and, while he flinched, he did not return to the episode that claimed him on the dock.

“What the hell was all that?” he heard himself ask, which prompted an internal cringe. Seriously, he didn’t want to deal with this, and he kept getting himself involved in Sunny’s bizarre mental breakdown.

The question never received an answer. At least, not a satisfactory one; Sunny’s trademark sheepish smile emerged, wide and failing to be reassuring, accompanied by waving hands as though it would dismiss the whole ordeal as mere fantasy. But Sebastian knew better. He knew what he saw, and no one could tell him otherwise.

(“It’s true!” Sebastian cried, carried in Mom’s arms through wind and rain. “Daddy, he - he - !”

“Sebby,” she choked out, “Sebastian. It’s okay now. You’re okay. You’re safe. Nothing’s going to hurt you now.”)

“Sunny,” he said, keeping his tone even. “If you don’t want to talk about it, that’s cool with me. Just,” he stuffed his hands into his sweatshirt’s pocket, thumbs brushing against the wet lining, “I don’t know. If storms mess you up bad, then keep an eye on the weather channel more or something. What if this happened in the middle of the woods and no one else was around?”

He removed the backpack and set it onto the table next to the miniature fake pine tree passing as a decoration. Its contents clunked together. He hoped nothing broke in the process of getting Sunny home, like that cool rock thing. It looked fragile.

A cellphone screen lit up in Sebastian’s line of vision:

I’M SORRY.

Those words again. Sebastian shrugged and shook his head. “It’s fine. I wasn’t doing anything super important anyways except maybe catching hypothermia and hopefully dying.”

The dark humor didn’t quite land as Sunny fumbled with his phone, almost dropping it entirely, before catching it and typing out furiously:

DON’T YOU DARE SAY YOU HOPE TO DIE WHEN YOU HAVE NO IDEA WHAT THAT MEANS TO EVERYONE AROUND YOU.

“Not much, I’d imagine.”

The cynicism came out before he could stop himself. The look across Sunny’s face was as if Sebastian just rolled up and slapped him sideways. His thumbs hesitated on the phone’s keyboard long enough for the screen to go dark. The rain lightened some, the thunder fading away, the storm all too short-lived. For a moment, Sebastian wondered if he pissed Sunny off and was about to give him the riot act.

Instead, something worse happened.

He smiled.

Broken and pained and terribly understanding as it was, Sunny smiled, unable to meet Sebastian’s eyes. Nothing about it looked correct; like some doppelganger pretending to be Sunny killed the original one and took his place in those three seconds somehow. Water dripped from his bangs, creating pools around his boots. The phone returned to its resting place on the table next to his bag, cutting off their communication to one another. He chewed on his bottom lip, as if thinking, before bringing his hand to his chin and, in an all too familiar sign, brought it back down.

Thank you.

It didn’t feel right, whatever this conversation became. Sunny was electing to ignore it in order to move on. Sebastian tried to get his jaw to unclench to respond.

“No problem,” he managed, buying into the illusion that things were just fine. He coughed a few times to clear his throat. “You, uh. You gonna be alright now?”

Sunny nodded and gave a thumb’s up. Then, after a pause, he rushed over to the door rack, grabbing an umbrella from a little bucket and offering it to Sebastian. Too normal. Too pleasant Sunny. Sebastian took it, arm moving in a robotic fashion to accept the offering.

“I’ll get it back to you at Gus’s,” he said. “Sunny?”

Sunny tilted his head in picture-perfect normalcy, minus the “soaked in rain” thing.

“You,” he started, then frowned. He clicked his tongue. No point in trying to figure what’s going on right now. “You doing anything on Sunday? There’s jellyfish that come by once a year for the migration during the evening, and, uh. I think you might like it. Or not. I don’t know. It’s whatever, but it might be up your alley to, like. Take your mind off things? Or.” The suggestion was turning into a trainwreck fast. “Forget it, you probably already knew about it.”

I’LL BE THERE.

The screen stared back at Sebastian with an unsaid promise.

And he was there. He was there, enraptured by the bioluminescent glow of the jellyfish, crouching down on the very docks he slipped upon just a few days earlier. He was there, grinning at Sam’s joke, smiling at Abigail’s snide comments, eyes twinkling at Sebastian when he decided to join them. He was there, an embraced member of Pelican Town, an established stranger nobody quite understood, and acted as though he always belonged there, like it was a destiny foretold in the stars above.

The curiosity in Sebastian’s head remained, even with the past behind them and the present not quite enticing enough to shield the question:

What really brought you here?

Chapter Text

The umbrella, wedged between his computer and monitor, took up residence in his room for the past month or so while waiting like a child at an after-school daycare for their forgetful parents to come pick them up. Sebastian, the unwitting caretaker, often found his gaze shifting toward the tacky red-and-white pattern whenever his thoughts on his current work project idled. He’d thumb the handle, frown, and attempt to resume his work while the current dramatic predicament stewed in the back of his head:

I haven’t seen Sunny since the end of summer.

Given the size of Pelican Town, the likelihood of missing a man of such stature was negligible at best. His usual haunting places - the docks on the beach, just outside Pierre’s store reading over the bulletin board, near the lake, in the forest, at the saloon on Friday’s - no longer had him flitting about in the backdrop. But more than that, Sunny, who between his farming schtick and his additional obligations, ceased to show up around Sebastian’s break times every once in awhile.

It was like the entirety of the valley shared a collective fever dream and conjured up an imaginary man just to stave off the impending ennui threatening to lay claim to their unassuming, uneventful lives. Sebastian shook off the thought, recentering his attention to a client’s project very near completion. No, no. Sunny was real. Nobody in town (except maybe Abigail) had the imagination to project such a weird person into existence.

He frowned. The highlighted section of code stared back at him, awaiting its deletion.

If Sunny was real, then the additional reality, an unwanted one, sunk its sharpened claws into his stomach and plucked at the budding cocoons within piece by piece:

He’s avoiding me.

Why, he couldn’t quite - well. He jabbed the backspace button with a little more force than necessary, banishing the line into the gaping void. That wasn’t true. He knew why. Since the thunderstorm, the last real one of the season, things felt - things were different. He happened to be privy of something never meant for him, watched lips form three syllables never meant to be exposed to an accidental audience. During the jellyfish migration, the usual shyness in Sunny’s countenance took on a new, stilted edge to it, his gestures hesitant and robotic. Sure, he remained close to their group, but remained on the outskirts as if ready to bolt at any second.

When he never showed up at the Stardrop the first time, Sebastian chalked it up to Sunny needing space. It made sense; whenever Sebastian’s emotions began to burst at the seams, his immediate response was to withdraw into the basement and absorb himself in his work, usually resulting into pulling all-nighters before crashing come the weekend. Then another week passed, then a month, and now it drew nigh to another month without so much as seeing a speck of the guy.

People making themselves scarce in Sebastian’s life wasn’t something unusual or unexpected. He half-anticipated that one day, Sam and Abigail would wisen up, see how much of a waste of space he actually was, and ditch him for someone much more socially favorable. Other friends from the past, now mirages whenever he tried to recall their names, drifted away when their interests changed and Sebastian’s never did. Such was life.

But this. This inexplicable avoidance, leaving a bitter taste upon his tongue and a twisted knot in his gut, agitated him. Him, the one deigned the wonderful title of “Antisocial McGee” or “The People-Hating Shut-in.” His pride refused to have him take the path heading west toward the farm to see what was up, too, leaving him in this awkward limbo of are we still friends and do I even want to be his friend, or is it more trouble than its worth?

So instead, he compromised: every Friday, he pocketed the abandoned umbrella into his sweatshirt with the intention of returning it the day Sunny decided to show his face again. He wouldn’t actively seek out his company (too desperate), but he wouldn’t necessarily deny it, either. Except now that it mid-fall was almost underway, his determination in sticking to the plan waned.

I should just throw it away.

The thought crossed his mind several times. The distance from the computer desk to the wastebin wasn’t even that far; if he tossed it, he deduced a likelihood of success to be around ninety percent. Occasionally, he picked up the umbrella, its weight now overly familiar in his palm, and eyed the trash can nearby with every intention to commit.

And every time, he set the umbrella back down right beside his monitor, where it would muck up the rest of his room’s aesthetic with its cliched color-clashing stripes.

A notification dinged in the corner of his screen, pulling him away from his thoughts.

Sam: u coming?

Sam: don’t leave us hanging bro I already took the first shot roflmao

Sam: unless u want to forfeit ur pool king title?

Sebastian sighed. His mood dipped considerably in a handful of moments, his remaining energy devoted to preventing himself from banging his head off his keyboard. The thought of getting up, walking down to the saloon, and meeting his conversation quota for the week sounded abhorrent. Still, the more competitive side of him, the one that thrived on thrashing Sam six ways to Sunday, itched to do battle in a game rigged for him to win. It satisfied something primal in him.

Me: omw

He pushed himself away from the desk with an extreme, concerted effort. His limbs ached all over from being sedentary for several hours too long. He rose, stretching, before scuffing his heels toward the door - only to pause by the desk.

After a brief contemplation, he picked up the umbrella and pocketed it.

Then, regretting his decision already, he stepped out of the comforting darkness to rejoin the others in the world bathed in golden light.

***

The saloon, abuzz with activity, already sported most of its Friday evening regulars. Sebastian hardly arrived so late, so seeing a sea of familiar faces already hammered or enthralled in smalltalk or dancing to the oldies belted out from the crackling jukebox felt bizarre and creepy. He avoided meeting eyes with most of its patrons while shuffling toward the side-room, where Sam leaned against the pooltable and Abigail draped herself over the loveseat in her bid to claim all of its territory. Hesitantly, his gaze shifted toward the arcade machine, even though the 64-bit tune on-loop told him what he already knew.

No Sunny. Not yet, at any rate, but the day wasn’t getting any younger.

“About time,” Abigail drawled, inching over the arm of the loveseat in her best sloth impression. “I had to have Sam reset the table twice already ‘cause I caught him cheating. You can thank me for maintaining your game’s integrity.”

“Hey!” Sam squawked and poked her side with the cue stick. She batted it aside, giving him a cheeky grin, and he huffed. “I don’t cheat. I just bumped into the table on accident is all. Twice. Anyways, ‘sup man? Get distracted online or something? You’re never this late.”

Sebastian shrugged, a safe deflection he relied on. “Work.”

“Pretty sure ogling hot women on forum boards doesn’t constitute as work, but whatever floats your boat.” Abigail yawned and swung her legs over the edge of her seat, pulling her up into a proper sitting position. “You guys hungry? I’m starving and want pizza. Any requests? Wait, don’t tell me. One pepperoni, one ‘so long as there’s no onions or olives,’ and a two liter of Joja Cola.”

“And the mushrooms!” Sam tacked on. “Can’t forget the medium, what’s it, portabella with spinach or whatever it’s called. The gross one.”

Abigail, already heading toward the counter, paused. Sebastian clicked his tongue and picked up his cue stick, eying the current positions of the balls. Yellow was already off the map, having been sniped by Sam’s opener, but left him vulnerable to lose purple and red. She said something in the middle of his assessment, a garbled backdrop of words responded to by Sam with something unintelligible, but he almost missed his friend’s voice over the tinny jingle of the saloon’s bell.

Sebastian’s neck whipped and craned over toward the entrance. His anticipation plummeted within milliseconds upon seeing Demetrius and Mom, wearing their stupid matching pendants and sharing stupid couple-y smiles. Yip-dee-fucking-doo. He could not roll his eyes any harder at their rekindled feelings, as if Demetrius stoked the flames of their long-since burnt out honeymoon phase. Maru seemed over the moon about it, because why wouldn’t she be, but now anytime he surfaced anywhere in the rest of the house that wasn’t the basement, their sickeningly sweet doe-eyes made him want to vom.

“Waiting for someone there, Seb?”

Sam’s inquiry was a thankful distraction from the impromptu nightmare reel of his Mom and her husband smooching. Eugh. “No,” he said, getting his position ready for his shot. “Just thinking, is all.”

A disbelieving expression swept across Sam’s face, but - for once - he didn’t vocalize it. The sound of phenolic resin clacking together filled the sudden quiet, the shot hurdling several balls into the table’s pits. Still, the results were less than satisfactory; the purple ball lacisidaisically rolled about four inches short of its intended target. Sam took it instead, alongside the green one in retaliation.

The game was close. As in, Sam had an actual, legitimate chance of winning.

“You sure you’re good, dude?” Judging by his tone, Sam seemed surprised at the very same revelation unfolding before them. “You seem, like, super distracted.”

“Just tired.” Sebastian emphasized his point with a punctual roll of his shoulder and a longer-than-average yawn. He cocked his head back towards Abigail, who carried four pizza boxes stacked in one hand and two two-liters wedged under her other arm. She set everything down on the unoccupied table nearby, then patted the boxes with a grin.

“On me tonight, boys. One of you can pick up the tab next week.”

“Why, thank you, our most wondrous queen in all the land.” Sam bowed with such grandiose flourish that Sebastian assumed it’d been practiced in the solitude of his room or something. “Wait, you legit got the mushroom one, too? He hasn’t been here for, like, over a month now.”

A twinkle sparkled in Abigail’s eye, bringing with it a sense of foreboding. Anticipatory sweat broke out along Sebastian’s forehead. “Very observant you are, my noble steed,” she replied in a rudimentary posh accent. “Correct - I did indeed purchase an additional pizza for our nighttime proclivities, and I see the very questions dancing through your head: why? Fret not,” she waggled her forefinger, “for I have, as they say, a master plan.”

Oh Yoba, did Sam rope her into watching film noirs, too? A headache began forming along Sebastian’s temples.

“Pray tell!” Sam set aside his cue stick and picked up one of the boxes, opening its contents, and grinning at the glistening pepperonis smiling back at him. “I am all ears.”

“Why am I friends with you two again,” Sebastian drawled, resisting another urge to roll his eyes.

“This plan requires your attention, dearest Sebastian, so I hope I can keep your fixation upon me for several moments longer.” Abigail strode a few paces ahead of them and twirled on her heel to face them. She cleared her throat and puffed her chest. “We are all aware of, ah, the problem we have noticed these past few weeks regarding Sunny’s peculiar behavior, no?”

So it wasn’t just him? Sebastian frowned, pushing his hands into his sweatshirt’s pocket, where his fingers accidentally brushed against the umbrella’s canvas. “Think you’d have to be blind to not notice.”

Abigail nodded emphatically. “Right, right. I decided to take a stroll on ‘accident’ through there, and have made a discovery. Our lovely Sunshine, his farm has exploded with activity. Where once woods sprawled through its ardent lands,” gods, did indulging in detective flicks seriously bludgeon their brains with the universe’s biggest thesaurus or what? “is now a huge kick-ass actual legit farm, believe it or not.” Oh, there she was, no longer possessed by the 18th century. He was worried he’d have to force that doctor Harvey into studying exorcisms.

“Your point?”

“My point, Seb, is that I think he bit off a little more than he can chew for one person and has forgotten the concept of ‘relaxation time.’ So!” She scooped up one of the pizza boxes and pushed it into his chest. “Your mission, should you choose to and will accept it, is to go, hm, rescue him. Lure him with this pizza and bring him to the saloon, and don’t come back empty-handed. Got it?”

He took the pizza and sighed. “If he’s busy, we should leave him be.”

“Unacceptable. I need him, Seb. You see that score there?” She pointed at the daunting “Journey of the Prairie King” console lingering in the background, continuing to sing its ominous 64-bit chiptune. “I can’t beat it without his help. He’s a freaking whiz. And you’re his closest friend, so I’m sure he’d be more than happy to come out if you went and fetched him with your little present there.”

“That’s your motive? A video game?”

“Not just any video game!” Abigail tsk’d and shook her head. “The hardest one in all of the Republic! It’s absolutely imperative I make my name known on its digital landscape that I, Queen Abigail, am its rightful supreme leader in terms of the scoreboard! Please?” Shit. She bit her bottom lip and laid thick the puppy-dog eyes, watering with crocodile tears. “You’re my only hope, Sebby-Wan Konobi.”

Sam barked a laugh. “Sebby-Wan Konobi,” he repeated under his breath, slapping his thigh. “Oh, man, that’s a good one, Abby.”

“Thank you, thank you. I’ll be here all week. So, whaddaya say?” She tilted her head to the side. “You’ll go get him for me, won’t you, Seb?”

Goddammit. Sebastian drew in a slow, sharp inhale, eyes closing for momentary respite, before exhaling in defeat. “Just this once. Never ask me for anything ever again.”

“Dude, I don’t think those words mean what you think they mean.”

“Shut up. I’ll be back,” Sebastian muttered, pizza and Abigail’s pleas in tow. “Don’t bump into the pool table while I’m gone. It’s an actual good game for once, and I don’t want you ruining your own chances.”

“Gee, thanks,” Sam called after him, his sarcastic tone cut short when the saloon door swung shut.

***

“He totally bought that.”

Sam quirked an eyebrow at Abigail, who reached for her own pizza topped with a gajillion different weird ingredients Sam could never hope to fathom to understand. “You deserve, like, a star or something for acting.”

“I just couldn’t take them moping anymore.” She tore a large chunk of her slice with her teeth. “I’ve never seen Seb so, you know. Like that. And Sunny, he just didn’t know how to approach him or something. He came to me the other day and was all kinds of worried that he waited too long to ‘make-up’ or whatever.”

“Wait, they got into a fight?” That was news to Sam. As far as he was concerned, Sunny didn’t have a mean bone in his way too huge body - almost to a detriment. “Are you serious? I never heard about this. That why he hasn’t come ‘round lately?”

“I mean, I didn’t lie when I said his farm’s kind of busy-looking. He probably is really busy with farming stuff.” She shrugged and twisted the seal to one of the colas, snapping it clean off. “I’m not sure if they got in a fight or not, but something’s definitely going on. Shit,” she frowned, “I forgot the glasses. Can you get some for me?”

“Sure thing.”

If he were one of those detectives from the shows he watched recently, the mystery alone would entice him to spare his brain cells to ponder over. Sebastian wasn’t the type to go out of his way to befriend other people. Hell, Sam had a grand time trying to get him out of his shell when they first met. Even now, it remained as prickly as the discard sea urchins littering the beach. To think Sunny, in the span of a few seasons, could somehow worm between the cracks of the bricks lined around Sebastian’s heart was nothing short of amazing.

To think that Sebastian would allow him to begin with, well. Sam leaned across the counter and shot Emily a grin, who smiled back with her bright, chipper smile. She provided the glasses requested lickity-split, Sam making certain to ask for four of them, and he balanced them precariously in his arms. Last thing he wanted was to drop them - again. Gus had a real field day with him then.

A bolt of clarity struck him halfway across the main dining area, and he almost repeated the same mistakes, but managed to make a fumbling recovery of the glasses.

Does he, like, like Sunny?

It made sense. Always talking about him during band practice, always seemingly thinking about him, allowing himself to get moody when a splinter cracked their forming relationship - it matched exactly how he acted around Abigail. Or, well, at least used to act around Abigail. Lately, Sebastian’s nerves eased off a little whenever conversing or interacting with her, embarking in casual banter like genuine besties do. Instead, he couldn’t even go see Sunny without being bribed because what appeared to be an underlying anxiety of somehow screwing it up.

“That’s so like him.”

“What?” Abigail looked up from the arcade machine. “Oh, sweet. Here, lemme grab one of those. You say something earlier or?”

“Nah,” he said, deciding to keep his newfound knowledge to himself - for now. “Don’t worry ‘bout it. Pour me some too, won’tcha?”

“Only ‘cause you asked so nicely,” she replied with a wink.

***

The pizza warmed Sebastian’s otherwise chilled hands through the cardboard, the autumn breeze crisp and nibbling at his fingertips. Still not cold enough to see his breath yet, though. With the sun still up and edging toward the horizon, its warmth continued to beat upon the back of his neck, shadowing him on his way toward Sunny’s farm. It’d been awhile since last stepped foot there, and the thought of showing up unannounced on Abigail’s beck and call didn’t help his nerves any. Why’d he agree to this again?

He rounded the path around the animal lover’s farm and headed northbound, half-expecting to be greeted by an immense wall of trees. And while he was correct, the farm’s southern entrance still enshrouded and cloaked in shade from numerous branches, there were significantly less of them the closer he arrived to Sunny’s house.

Instead, a vast field of green greeted him, bulbous plants fighting for acreage between handmade wooden fences. The rubbish cluttering the outskirts got cleared out, replaced by footpaths winding to and from different aspects of the farm. Most notably - Sebastian shifted his gaze upon hearing a distinct bwa-aa-aa-aah - were the new puffy white friends munching on the tall grasses in their enclosed pastures.

Sheep.

Of course Sunny would raise sheep. The corner of Sebastian’s upper lip twitched. It felt like a match made in the heavens, a soft skittish man befriending such soft skittish creatures. Speaking of. In the distance, leaning against his hoe to take a breather stood the man of the hour, donned in a plaid long-sleeve shirt and those trademark jean overalls of his. He looked beat. Abigail’s assessment appeared right, after all. Sebastian slowed his pace and approached carefully in the hopes he wouldn’t spook him - and to buy himself more time to find the right words to say.

Sunny’s head lifted upon hearing Sebastian’s closing-in footsteps, the messy bun trapping his stupid-long hair loosening a little. His eyebrows lifted, lips parting in muted surprise, before his gaze shifted to the box in Sebastian’s hands. Dirt and fertilizer speckled his face and clothes, accompanied by dried sweat. Boy, did it smell. Sebastian resisted the urge to wrinkle his nose.

“Hey,” he said. Normally. Casually. With every rehearsed cadence of a nonplussed, totally not overthinking guy who wanted to be literally anywhere else to escape the awkwardness settling in his gut. A decent start. He glanced at the briar beyond the fences, filled with unripened - what, pumpkins? Looked like pumpkins. “We, uh, haven’t seen you in a bit, so Abby wanted me to give you this to force you into break time. She won’t let me back into the saloon unless I bring you with me.”

The guarded, reserved smile lightened a fraction, Sunny’s brow furrowing in either concern or realization at his recent workaholic habits. He gave a sheepish (hah, see, sheep are perfect for him) smile and rubbed the back of his neck, apologetic.

“It’s pizza,” he elaborated. “She got you mushroom and spinach or something. Said she desperately needs your help in the arcade game you two love.” He paused, weight shifting from one foot to the other. “Um. Sunny?”

Sunny blinked, urging him to continue.

Well, here went nothing. Sebastian swallowed and looked away, unable to imagine what response he was going to get. “Are you, uh, avoiding us ‘cause of me? Did I do something wrong maybe?”

The heat radiating from the bottom of the cardboard box wasn’t enough to ignite his flesh on fire, yet he wanted to burn to a pile of ashes anyhow. If only he were so lucky.

“I mean,” he added quickly, stare fixated on the ground, “like, I don’t know if - it’s been awhile since we - I just wanted - shit. I don’t know. I don’t really get people, so when I screw up with someone I actually give a damn about, I never know how to fix it. I usually just give up and call it a day, but with you, it’s. I don’t know, it’s different. You’re,” he dared to glance up, meeting a perplexed Sunny’s gaze, “kind. I mean that. It’s not something common around here, so it stands out, and - you know what I’m getting at, right?”

It would be a miracle if he did somehow, considering Sebastian had zero idea what exactly he was rambling about now. Sunny kept staring, head slowly tilting to one side as if it helped with ruminating Sebastian’s words a little better. The small, nervous smile returned, hidden by the back of his hand. He leaned his hoe against the fence and dug out his cellphone, every tippity-tap of his keyboard amping up Sebastian’s anxiety to spiraling levels.

I’M NOT AVOIDING YOU BECAUSE YOU HURT MY FEELINGS.

The unwritten “but” sat heavy in the vacant space on the Memo app. Sebastian’s nails dug into the box, watching Sunny hold the delete button and hash out something else:

I’M AVOIDING YOU BECAUSE I THOUGHT I ANNOYED YOU WITH THE EPISODE I HAD AND THE CONVERSATION AFTERWARD, AND I’M BAD WITH CONFRONTATION. AND THEN TOO MUCH TIME PASSED, AND I GOT BUSY, AND I THOUGHT IT WAS TOO LATE TO MEND BRIDGES. I’M SORRY.

The phone trembled ever so slightly in his grasp. Sebastian squinted at the explanation, feeling the coiled tension ease a little. A different sensation gripped him instead: confusion.

“What? No. Why would you think you annoyed me? Wait, don’t answer that. I know I get annoyed easily, but I wasn’t upset or anything about, uh, all that. I was,” he scrambled to pinpoint his feelings that day, when the rain lashed against his soaked skin, when he chucked out his usual flight response to get Sunny someplace safer, “worried. About you. That’s all. I wasn’t mad, promise.”

To call it “relief” that sagged Sunny’s shoulders sounded like an understatement of the millennia. A visible shine took to his eyes, making the copper color glimmer in the afternoon light. He pressed a hand to his chest, exhaling a hearty breath, and - Sebastian held his - smiled. A big, genuine one at that, dwarfing the other meek and uncertain ones sprinkled throughout his interactions here and there.

Huh.

“Let’s, uh.” What the hell was that? A peculiar feeling, unsettling and different and not entirely unwelcome, pumped through his veins and burned along the back of his neck. “Let’s not do the weird avoidance thing again, alright? I know I’m not good at the whole talking about feelings thing, but - actually,” he glanced at Sunny’s device swallowed up in his hands, “gimme your phone number. Wait, I’ll give you my phone number, ‘cause I can’t really finagle this stupid pizza box. It’s easier for me to talk to a screen than face-to-face, you know?”

Sunny acquiesced to the request with a quick nod, saving Sebastian’s contact information in his phone. A little buzz in Sebastian’s back pocket indicated a new message, undoubtedly with Sunny’s number attached.

“Cool. Um.” Sebastian frowned, then held out the pizza box in offering. “I guess I should apologize too for making you feel that way. It wasn’t what I meant to do, but I guess that’s not the important part. Uh. I’m glad that we’re at least chatting again, ‘cause you’re a decent guy.”

YOU THINK I’M COOL?

“I didn’t say that, don’t be getting an ego on me or anything.” He smirked as Sunny grinned after putting away his phone and accepting the bribe. “But for real, Abby wants to see you and thinks you need to relax a bit. You gonna come with for a little while?”

Sunny gazed over his farm, and Sebastian could see him checking off a mental task list in his head whenever it bobbed a little. Then, after a few more moments, he gave a definitive nod and followed Sebastian along the paths carefully crafted leading southbound.

It was a start. Sure, some awkwardness remained alongside some unanswered, nagging questions, but one step at a time. He could pick away at whatever haunted Sunny later; for now, seeing him in somewhat better (and tired) spirits alleviated the indescribable pressure building inside Sebastian.

When they returned to the saloon, Abigail perked up in delight and Sam grinned at the achievement, welcoming Sunny back after a long hiatus. Their pizza boxes were half-empty, prompting Sunny and Sebastian to break into their own. A steady backdrop of bleeps and bloops and pew pew pews mingled with the jukebox tunes, the clack of balls and Sam losing the game once more bringing about a renewed sense of normalcy.

Another Friday night, and Sunny was there.

“Alright,” said Sam, chugging his fourth glass of cola and wiping the spittle aside with his sleeve, “gather ‘round, everyone. I decided that I’ve gotta take a picture for the ‘gram to help promote the band with, like, some relatable content. You can get in on this too, Sunny, since you’re gonna be our biggest fan.”

“No thanks,” Sebastian replied, still riding his high from a fourth victory at the pool table.

“Aw, c’mon man! Just one pic. It won’t steal your soul or anything. I’m not gonna make you smile or nothing either, I just wanna promote us more before the big show.”

“The show that we haven’t officially declared yet?” Abigail added, but wandered over nonetheless to fulfill her band-picture duties. “Or are you for serious about the whole after Spirit’s Eve thing? ‘Cause I don’t know about you, but I’m still a little rusty. Here, Sunny, stand on the other end, me and Seb’ll be in the middle.”

“It’ll be fiiiiine. We’ll kick ass and take names, I guarantee it. Here, switch with me, Sunny, I’ll take this end. There you go.”

“I said - hey.” Sebastian’s protests were refuted with a unanimous override, with Abigail wedging him between her and Sunny. Sam dug out his extension stick, clipped it to the back of his phone, and adjusted the settings for a delayed shot. Sebastian hoped his utter disdain for the impromptu photo shoot conveyed itself in the picture.

“A little closer, guys. There we go, now we all fit. Ready?”

Close. He was uncomfortably close to both Abigail and Sunny. She slotted right next to him easily, whereas Sunny, bending slightly to try and fit into the shot, didn’t quite know what to do with his arms. He stretched one out carefully along Sebastian’s shoulders, hand able to reach toward Abigail’s mid-back. Seriously, what sort of genetics lottery did he win in his character creation process? Sebastian shot him a glance, seeing that usually nervous smile, accented by a faint redness splotched on his cheeks. Heat radiated off his arm, searing through Sebastian’s sweater and radiating into his own skin.

Under the stench of hardwork, he smelled of spinach and mushrooms.

A shutter sound-effect went off, announcing the end of Sebastian’s misery and social obligations. Sam grinned and peeked at the picture, already applying a myriad of different filters to make it look just right or whatever. Not that Sebastian cared, but he knew he’d receive an attachment with it in his inbox later that evening.

The rest of the night went over well, their group breaking apart after saying their goodbyes while the full moon hung low in the background. Sebastian’s stare lingered on Abigail’s form disappearing around the corner, then, after a moment, turned to see Sunny shuffling away. He sighed, ready to crash for the night, and shoved his hands into his sweatshirt’s pocket.

Oh, Yoba, the umbrella! He forgot to return the umbrella! He opened his mouth to catch Sunny’s attention, then, after a moment, decided against it. The guy looked as tired as Sebastian felt.

He would just give it back next time. No biggie.

His fingers brushed against its handle as he made his way back to the house, the hoots of owls and the lingering warmth along his back accompanying him the whole way.

Chapter Text

The idea came to him as most did: in the midst of a cigarette break while gazing out over the dead leaf-infested lake waters. His thoughts drifted from a client’s current website predicament to a game idea that would more than likely never see fruition before veering a hard right into unmapped territories of his own subconscious. He blinked, arm stilling mid-motion to bring the cigarette back to his lips poised to suckle down the nicotine. His eyebrows lifted, head tilting to one side in a brief contemplation of whether or not he should commit to said-idea, before snuffing out the cancer stick in the muddy lakeside and speed-walking back to the house.

“Close the door, it’s freezing out there,” Mom complained when Sebastian returned from his mid-afternoon break. She wore a snappy magenta vest over her woolen sweater, space heater making a permanent residence under her desk for the next handful of months. “I don’t know how you’re able to withstand the chill in just your sweatshirt, sweet child of mine. You didn’t get that from me, I tell you.”

“Is Maru home?” he asked, pulling of his shoes without so much as untying them beforehand. A pregnant pause extended before them. When Sebastian looked up from the floor, having successfully removed his sneakers, Mom gawked at him as though he sprouted additional limbs. “What?”

“You’re looking for your sister?”

“Why, she at the clinic?”

“I - no, she came home for the day,” Mom replied, slowly, as if imparting such knowledge would befell the end times. “Did something happen between you two?”

“No?”

“Is something going to happen then? I don’t want my babies to get into fights well before dinner.”

“Ugh - no, Mom.” Sebastian rolled his eyes and shuffled through the door leading to the rest of the house. “I just wanna talk to her, is all. She in her room?”

“I think so. Sebby,” Mom bit her bottom lip, the concern still riddled throughout her furrowed brow, “just - well. You two take care. I’ll call when dinner’s ready.”

The floorboards creaked beneath his feet as he padded all the way down to Maru’s bedroom - a place he hardly (if ever) visited despite how long they shared the same roof. One of the bathrooms resided close to her room, and whenever he went to use it, he sometimes heard peculiar (and borderline creepy) sounds emanating from behind the door, generally metallic in nature. If they ever had any potential thieves attempting to break-in, they’d skedaddle right back out from whence they came upon hearing the crash whirr bangs spelling disaster for any unlucky sap who dared venture into her budding scientific lab.

And now he approached the very same door, willingly, and with most of his brain cells in tact, all now screaming at unison that this was a very, very, very bad idea, after all.

Didn’t stop him from knocking though.

“Just a sec!” Several clinks and drawers shuddering shut later, Maru pulled aside her door with a smile: “Hi, Da - ah? Uh, Sebastian?” Her smile faltered, replaced with surprise. She pushed up her glasses and squinted. “You are my older brother, right? Not some robotic clone of him to try to convince me to impart knowledge regarding humanity in order to stage the oncoming alien invasion in order to overthrow mankind once and for all, right?”

What.

“What.” Sebastian squinted right back at her. What sort of inspiration lined her imagination with grand intergalactic schemes that would bother to use someone like Sebastian to infiltrate her room? “I seriously don’t think I’ll ever be able to understand y - what are you doing? Ow!”

Maru pinched and pulled at both of his cheeks, stretching them to their painful limits. She pursed her lips, then nodded before releasing them. “You feel real enough,” she assessed. “Very well. Did you need me for something? I was working on stuff. Or did Mom successfully send you here as a messenger boy for dinner for once?”

“That hurt,” he groused, rubbing at his tingling face. “I just wanted to ask your opinion on something.”

“Hold the phone, you want my opinion on something?” Her eyes widened, glasses sliding down the bridge of her nose. “No way. The aliens are far more advanced than I ever imagined - they can make organic clones instead of tin can ones! This is an unmitigated disaster. The Sebastian I know would never ask for my opinion, ever. Who are you? What processes did they use to grow you? How did you get my brother’s DNA sample?”

“You know what? Never mind. This was stupid.” Sebastian clicked his tongue and stuffed his hands into his sweatshirt’s pocket. “Have fun playing with your rusty nails or whatever it is you do in there.”

“No, no - get back here, I’m teasing. Seb,” she grabbed onto his sleeve and tugged him back toward her room, “c’mon, I’m all ears. I’ll help you out. What’s up?”

The inside of her room actually seemed more average than he imagined. Sure, it still purported many bizarre trinkets cluttering the floor and tables, but there seemed to be some underlying organization beneath the shallow chaos. He eyed the little robot in the center, wires spilling out from what looked to be its head and plugged into a computer. Huh. He scratched the back of his head.

“I don’t know if this is even feasible,” he started.

“Most hypotheses start out like that, but we can’t know for sure until we run the experiments.” Maru hummed and sat in her desk chair, spinning from side to side. “Lay it on me, and I’ll give you a good guess.”

“It’s about Sunny. You know how he’s mute.”

“The whole of Pelican Town does,” she answered, nodding.

“He uses his phone to communicate,” he continued, suddenly feeling self-conscious. “It takes him awhile to get his thoughts out. Do you think - I don’t know, is there a way he can, like, communicate with us without using it? Like,” he gestured around his own head, “some device that can broadcast his thoughts and type them out for him or something? Or am I an idiot?”

Surprisingly enough, she didn’t start laughing. Instead, she picked up a pencil and a little notebook off her desk, scribbling it down with as much sincerity as a doctor listening to their ailing patient. “Something Sunny can communicate better with, more or less, and can be hands-free? Is that right?”

“Maybe?”

“Hm.” Maru rapped the pencil’s eraser against her chin, spinning full rotations in her chair now. Her head tilted back, gaze fixated on the ceiling. “That’s actually a fun little inquiry there, Seb. I dunno if I can have an answer right off for you or not, but I can totally take a look into it. Really,” she halted her spins, “the best way to talk to him is to learn FSL so he can sign freely and you can understand him.”

“I get that, but have you seen some people around here? Pam will never give up fifteen minutes a day on LingoDuo when she could be spending them hammered instead. It’s not fair to him to have to accommodate us all the time. Or, uh.” He frowned. “Something. Just. I was just wondering, that’s all.”

“No, I get it, you’re totally right. Shame it’s not taught in public schools, huh?” Maru gave a wry smile before sighing. She wrung her hands together. “You two are good friends, yeah? Of course you are, or else you wouldn’t be talking to me to help him out. Can you do me a favor in return?”

He shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “No promises.”

“Keep an eye on him, will you? As a friend. Working at the clinic gets you accompanied with the ‘regulars,’ you know. He’s still our age, but I see him visiting Dr. Harvey more often than I see George. I’m sure farming’s hard work, but I get worried about him - both as a medical assistant and as a friend of his, too.”

“At the - why, is something wrong with him?”

“No, no no. Don’t misunderstand, he’s not clinically ill or anything like that.” She shook her head. “He just has a classic case of ‘overworker’s syndrome.’ Seems to be a common thread among farmers, actually. With some exceptions of course. It’s a hard job, so it’s not too surprising, but when he shows up sometimes, it’s definitely not for farming-related accidents. Dr. Harvey’s been telling him to tone it down a bit, but who knows if he’ll listen? George sure doesn’t half the time.”

Abigail said something similar recently, too. “I can’t believe he hasn’t kicked it yet,” Sebastian muttered, earning an aghast gasp from Maru. “What? Guy’s ancient. I remember when he yelled at you for running across his yard once. Can’t say I’m all too fond of the jerk.”

Her eyes softened a little at the recollected memory. “We were playing tag,” she said, spinning back towards her work desk. “I trampled right over their flower beds. He was so mad about that, you could see his veins popping out of his neck. I didn’t even think he liked flowers, but,” she shrugged, “I suppose we all have our surprising sides that we never get the chance to share. Seb?”

She won every round of tag, sans two instances - and both times were mulligans because they got in trouble or the one time she banged her knee so hard against a rock it bled for what felt like hours. He remembered running right back to Mom, all in a tizzy, frantically pulling her along back to the crying Maru’s location. He bit his bottom lip, remembering how worried he felt, how terrible he felt for reaching just a little too hard to shove her that badly.

“Earth to Seb, you in there?”

“Yeah, I’m listening,” he lied, definitely not really paying attention anymore. When did they stop playing together? Ten years old? Twelve? It didn’t matter now, a decade long-gone with no chances of rekindling what once was. Why bother to dredge up a past relationship doomed from the start? She excelled in all things, and he -

“Thanks,” she said, out of the blue.

“Uh.” He blinked and replayed the sound bite of expressed gratitude in his head, trying to pinpoint why, exactly, she would say such a thing. When he came up with as much fucks he gave about life (on a good day would be about negative three if you rounded up), he bit the bullet and asked, “Why’re you thanking me?”

“I guess for trusting me to ask my opinion? It just felt right. You know?” He didn’t know, but Maru’s sheepish smile indicated she wasn’t quite certain, either. “I like talking to you. I do! Don’t give me that look, I genuinely think you’re a cool older brother. I don’t get some of the stuff you do, but it’s still nice to be like this again every once in awhile. And it’s fine if you don’t feel the same way,” she added quickly, “but that’s just how I feel.”

He eyed the robot, bearing a brunt of evidence proving immense skill and dedication towards its completion. “I,” he started, wanting to deflect every pseudo-compliment she tossed in his direction, but decided against it. Instead, he muttered, “You too. You’re cool, too. Kind of.”

“Kind of?” she repeated, letting out an dramaticized scoff.

“You talk too much. And you’re overly-chipper.”

“Someone has to balance out that constant rain cloud hanging over your head, you know.” She winked and set aside her pencil. “That aside, anything else I can help you with? Like convincing Mom that squash is the literal worst and she should never cook it again? We are in agreement about that, right?”

“Didn’t Demetrius like it?”

“Dad’s got weird tastebuds,” she dismissed, smiling nonetheless.

“I do have, uh. One more question.”

“Sure, sure. So long as it’s not about taking over the world, I’m all ears, person who is definitely my brother and not an impersonator whatsoever.”

She seriously wasn’t going to let that go, was she? He clicked his tongue and glanced at the neatly sorted stack of books nestled beside her desk. “Until we can figure something out,” he said, “how does one, like, go about learning this ‘FSL’ stuff properly that doesn’t require getting frustrated at ViewTube having limited options. I don’t think books are gonna cut it.”

Maru’s eyebrows lifted, lips drawn into a tight line, before pushing herself away from one desk to another where her computer resided. She snapped in a rubbery cartoon monster-shaped flash drive into one of the USB ports. Confused, Sebastian shuffled over to look over her shoulder, careful to not step on any strewn-about wires. She dragged a folder on her desktop into the vacant space of the flash drive, and, after a few moments of waiting for the bar to load, ejected it properly. She then removed the flash drive, presenting it to him in a ta-dah fashion.

“Don’t say I never do anything for you, Seb.”

***

The drive contained videos comprising beginner, intermediate, and advanced FSL language acquisition, all freshly ripped from some fancy-schmancy university hailing far from the rest of the Republic’s civilization. PDFs also filled the file, jamming the USB’s gigabyte usage to borderline maximum capacity. When he looked up the legal way to get the course, the amount of Gs needed to be a part of it exceeded his expectations: who the hell has that much money for just one semester of a beginner’s class?!

He didn’t expect goody two-shoes Maru to delve into the realm of pirating. Then again, this was the same woman who believed in aliens firstly arrived to their planet, and secondly wanted to use genetic warfare against them. Her standards could very well lean toward the “chaotic” alignment, meaning anything was on the table. Maybe she really was cooler than he chalked her up to be. Huh.

Either way, her interest in learning FSL proved just as useful for his own baby steps toward mastering the sign language alphabet. Sure, he could understand some simpler signs. But complex ones needed their building blocks, much like singular character constructing blocks of code. His fingers bent and arms jostled into foreign movements, interpreting the instructor’s every delicate nuance in their directions.

Luckily, once he enjoyed doing something, it made that task significantly easier to commit to. While learning sign language wasn’t the textbook definition of “pleasurable,” he delved into the underlying complexities of its grammar, of how certain gestures meant certain words. He took ten, twenty, sometimes thirty-minute breaks between projects, queuing up another video and browsing through the PDFs to gain better insight in just how Sunny’s “voice” worked.

Why exactly he wanted to, though - he wasn’t quite sure. Make Sunny’s life a little easier, maybe. Repay him for all the gifts he showered on him as of late, ranging from cool-looking rocks to ripened pumpkins, possibly. He hated owing debts.

Halfway through another looped video, a new message appeared in the corner of his screen.

Sam: we game for tonite?

Game? Was it Friday already? He double-checked the calendar icon - no, today was a Monday. He cocked his head to the side, trying to figure out what “game” Sam referred to if not pool, then almost choked on his own spit.

Oh, shit, the Solarian Chronicles session! The one he was supposed to GM! The one he certainly, most definitely, one hundred percent prepared for, a session to be remembered, a story of brave adventurers ready to be passed down to the ages - about their impending failure equivocated to that of a train derailing and flying down a cliffside. Crap, and Abigail was going to be there, too. She’d know a half-assed campaign like the back of her hand if he tried to pull that crap with her.

Against better judgment, Sebastian replied:

Me: u know it

Sam: cool. c u at 3!!1!

That gave him, what, four or five hours? Nope, an hour and a half. Seriously? Sebastian bit his bottom lip and pulled open one of his cabinet drawers, sifting through the sleep deprived-addled brainstorming sessions sprawled across college-ruled lines in illegible chicken scratch. He squinted at the graphite smudges, making out words like “evil warlock” and “indispensable funky moon king” between swathes of gray. Way to go, Sebastian, you total stud and brainiac, what makes you think you can flex at both the gym and the library with your supreme wombo-combo of big brain strats and bulging muscles to boot? He banged his head off his desk and groaned.

Well. After a deep breath, he lifted his head, scowling at the computer screen. One hour and half was more than five minutes. He could come up with something salvageable, no doubt. The “winging it” procrastinator of his high school days still resided somewhere in him, pulling off miraculous feats to enable him a passing grade all the way to graduation. Why would this be any different?

By the time Sam arrived with two bottles of Joja Cola in tow, Sebastian scrounged up a halfway decentish scenario that could potentially salvage his meager reputation of being the “best” at GM-ing among the three of them. He waved to Sam, who already claimed one of the chairs at the set-up table.

“Sorry I’m late, Vinny wanted me to rake him up some leaf piles for him to jump into,” Sam explained, rolling one of his shoulders. “Remember when we used to do that shit when we were kids? That was, like, one of the top ten games during fall. Still can’t get over how Abby ate one of the slugs she found on the back of the leaf that one time, though. Can never look at those things the same way ever again, lemme tell you.”

“You dared her,” Sebastian clarified, setting his miniature dice chamber to one side. “You should know better than to dare her. I’ve seen her eat a whole rock once, what makes you think she’d stop at slugs?”

“Oh, I dunno Seb, maybe some common sense? Who just eats slugs all willy-nilly? I was supposed to win that bet, and I lost my allowance over it.” Sam puffed his cheeks in disapproval, brow furrowing at the resurfaced sore feelings. “I was gonna buy me a Thunder Cor action figure, and I had to wait another two weeks ‘cause of her. Pretty sure Dad snuck in a couple extra Gs into my allowance to make up for it though, ‘cause it should’ve taken me a month.”

Right, Sam’s dad. Sebastian laid out the character sheets, fiddling with the corners of the “warrior” archetype. “Heard anything from him yet?”

“Not a peep.” Sam sighed, fingers lacing behind his head as he glanced up toward the ceiling. “Mom’s really strong, trying to make my lil bro not worried about his return at all, but I know she’s freaking out every time the news reports the numbers. Shit’s brutal, man. I don’t even know why we’re fighting in the first place. D’you think, like,” he unlaced his fingers and picked up the offered pencil, “the Ferngill Republic will reinitialize the draft system, and we’ll have to go to fight, too?”

“Pretty sure they put in an act to prevent that since the last election.”

“But with the numbers as high as they are - Yoba, Seb, we keep losing thousands every month. I just,” Sam ran a hand through his hair, “like, if I gotta leave Mom and Vinny, too, that’ll just mess me up hardcore, man. I can’t take it.”

Sebastian made a noise in the back of his throat, uncertain how to offer and comfort. The war always was a touchy subject around Pelican Town, almost borderline taboo to even mention it. Sam’s father wasn’t the only one from their neck of the woods to offer their services for the cause, but - unlike the rest - he was the only one who wasn’t a confirmed casualty. The thin facade of peace hung over Stardew Valley, terribly fragile and ready to shatter whenever the republic deemed it fit for their own needs. They knew the score. Human lives were only as valuable to those in power’s moral compasses, and if it pointed toward ascertaining even more power, then, well.

“I’d break your leg so you wouldn’t be able to go,” he replied at last. “I’d even pay the medical bills.”

“Dude! Then I wouldn’t be able to skateboard!”

“You wouldn’t be able to board if you went to war, either. Want the warrior?”

“Man, you’re way too smart with your ‘facts’ and ‘logic’ there, Seb.” Sam shook his head and reached for the sheet, only to stop when a cheery jingle emanated from his cellphone. The Abigail tone. Sam quirked an eyebrow and pulled it out from his jacket’s pocket, head tilting.

“What’d she say?”

“She’s got roped into helping her dad restock the shop,” Sam summarized, “but she’s sending a ‘viable replacement’ this time that should be here soon. Huh. I didn’t know there was anyone else in town who knew how to play?”

Good point. Maybe the fortune teller on TV Mom watched might know a thing or two, but her broadcasts were far from the valley, and the chances of Abigail knowing her personally sat on borderline negligible. Sebastian shrugged, then cocked his head to the side when he heard the hefty thu-thud thud thu-thuds coming from the stairwell. He knew those footsteps.

“Oh,” he said, the entrance revealing Sunny opening the door - and subsequently bonking his abused forehead right into the doorframe. Sebastian bit his inner cheek to stop the laugh threatening to escape him. “We need to keep a running tally or something for how many times you do that. I’m starting to wonder if there’re any remaining brain cells left in that skull of yours.”

“Heeeeey, Sunny! Been a minute!” Sam waved and gestured to the chair across from him. “You gonna be Abby’s replacement? I didn’t know you played this game. You’re just full of surprises. Something smells good, didja bring something?”

Sam’s sniffing senses were so supreme, springtime nerfed them with an onslaught of allergies. But come autumn, with the forming dead weeds, he ascended above all commonfolk, able to sniff out the goodies stuffed in Sunny’s cooler. Sebastian had no idea how he got that superpower. Maybe he exchanged the gravity around his hair for it.

Sunny ducked his head and hid a small grin behind his hand. He set the cooler lightly, carefully, on the chair slated for him, opening it as delicately as possible. From it, he procured steaming, sugar-coated treats arranged in a plastic container, pushing it toward a reverent Sam. Then, after exchanging a fleeting glance with Sebastian (Yoba, what the hell, he cleaned up nice. Did he shower before coming over or what - he didn’t even smell funky, and his clothes were swapped for something less patched and torn), pulled out a round, clear-topped bowl, the lid bathed in steam. The russet broth sloshed against the sides as Sunny nudged it across the table before Sebastian in offering.

“Sunny, I keep telling ya, you’ve gotta open a little cafe or something that makes this shit all the time,” Sam said between scarfing down what looked like a doughnut. “I could eat this for days on-end and never get sick of it.”

Shy, Sunny waved his hands to dismiss Sam’s assertions. In the meantime, Sebastian removed the gift’s lid and peered into its contents - but even if he didn’t possess working eyes, the smell alone told him all he needed to glean.

“This,” he started, eyebrows lifting, “isn’t this - hold on.” He picked up the bowl and, with the lack of a spoon, tipped the bowl against his lips. No doubt about it; the flavor, the spices, and even the consistency matched his memory. He set down the bowl, awed. “This is Mom’s recipe,” he concluded. “Did - she gave it to you? You made this?”

The question didn’t come out accusatory, but made Sunny hesitant regardless. He bit one corner of his bottom lip, eyes darting back to the table when he gave a single, slow nod. He began picking at his nails.

“It’s good,” he said. “No, really, it’s great, I’m not bullshitting. I’m surprised she gave it to you in the first place, Mom’s real secretive about her ingredients. I don’t know if you know this, but,” he took another long sip, savoring the pumpkin flavor, “I love this. It’s one of my favorite meals. Thank you.”

What happened next was a sequence of emotions Sebastian, in the utterly mundane, cynical, and pessimistic life the heavens decided to assign him, hardly ever had the chance to experience prior. First, the praise, once uttered from his lips, froze Sunny in place. The nail picking stopped, forefinger and thumb poised to pluck apart what remained of his cuticles. His eyes widened, lips parting, Adam’s apple bobbing. Then, his tucked-in chin lifted as his head turned, cautiously, toward Sebastian’s direction, looking for any signs of deception in Sebastian’s words.

And once he assessed all was spoken truth, well. A keen sparkle flickered in his eyes, and that smile returned. So wide, so dazzling, directed only to him.

If Sebastian were honest with himself - completely, with no ego to deflect his own subconscious truths - it was that moment, specifically. The moment that changed everything. The moment where questions had answers, and with those answers brought about even more alarming, demanding, flustered questions upending his own acceptance of how the very universe he perceived worked and how he himself operated. Some higher power pulled the rug under his feet, and now he hurdled through the stars, constellations blurring together so badly he could no longer find the North star to lead him back to common ground. The gears in his mind grinded to a screeching halt, and he sucked in a sharp, loud breath through his nose.

To his left, Sam covertly took another bite into his doughnut, either completely unaware of the absolute mindfuckery Sebastian’s brain catapulted itself into or - more likely - pretended as such. Either way, he couldn’t compute Sam’s very existence in that moment. No, instead, the pads of his fingertips almost procured burns from pressing so harshly against the soup’s container, searing up his arms and dyeing his ears crimson. No amount of skin grafts could fix that, he reckoned. He would perish here, he surmised. Here lies Sebastian, died as he lived: an absolute disaster.

“Uh, so,” he squeaked out, pitch resembling that of his twelve-year-old self, immediately rectified with a less-than-subtle cough, “you play Solarian Chronicles?”

Sunny, oblivious to his own newfound magic that wove spells over Sebastian’s oncoming damnation, shook his head. He began reaching for his phone -

“Wait. Try, uh. Signing it. What you’re about to say, I mean. Type. I meant type.”

A curiousness flashed over Sunny’s expression, mimicked by Sam, now three-fourths of the way through his snack. He obliged, leaving his phone untouched as his hands got into position:

[A-B-I-G-A-I-L ME SEND PLAY] a few gestures Sebastian hazarded guesses on [FIRST TIME EXCITE] and a few more he didn’t quite know before ending with [S-O-L-A-R-I-A-N HARD?]

Adrenaline rushed through him at the realization of, oh, holy shit, he actually learned something. Sure, he didn’t fully understand some signs, but - he straightened his back - he knew a lot more than most people in this damn town.

“It’s actually very beginner-friendly, even if you’re new to tabletop RPGs,” he replied, and Sunny gasped. He clapped in excitement, a flurry of signs speeding at a mile a minute. “Whoa, hey, slow down, I’m not that good yet.”

“That’s so dope, dude. I didn’t know you were learning sign language.” Sam leaned forward, surprised. “Yo, we should, like, hold study sessions and stuff together, you know? Sunny can help teach us whenever he’s got time. Maybe after our jam sessions?”

“Only if we get an established schedule going that’s more than once a week. Or every other Tuesday when the blood moon rises.”

“I’m not that inconsistent, am I? ...Am I? Hey, dude, don’t be giving me that sassy eyebrow of yours, I try to keep things regular! Okay, okay, I’ll draft up a schedule sometime soon. Tomorrow. I’ll get it in by tomorrow, ‘kay? Sheesh, why’re y’all picking on little ol’ me all the time?”

“Maybe have less of an easy target on your back for teasing. That would help. Here, Sunny, I’ll give you the basics real quick before we get started - guess it’s a good thing I chose a simpler campaign today after all.”

The debut of Solarian Chronicles met raving reviews from gaming gurus decades past, and its updated iterations fared about the same with some dips here and there. Sebastian preferred Classic Chronicles, the version predating the rest, for its unregimented campaign creator and a greater GM influence. That said, it could get terribly complicated in the character creation, with certain classes needing rolls to determine which skills one can and cannot learn. The modern Chronicles smoothed out the crinkles and made a sparkling, preferred set of rules, but Sebastian never quite got it. It felt more commercial. Less special. The dungeon master handbook sitting to his left, chock-full of post-it notes and scribbles in the margins, it pages yellowed with age. He’d never trade it out (even with the lure of updated artwork. Okay, so maybe he bought the set, sure, but it was just for the art, he swore).

To make things easier for his friends, he toiled over the character creation himself, often asking what their desired “bases” were for race and class and whatnot. He didn’t want to restrict them at all, but neither of them had the time nor patience to sit through two hours of work before even playing.

“I have three different main bases you can use,” he said after a brief synopsis of how the game worked. “I’ve got the Wizard, who kind of focuses more on damage dealing through spells. Warrior, who boasts in both attack and defenses, and can be situational as a result. And Cleric,” the one Abigail usually picked, “who, you know, heals people and stuff. Since it’s your first time, you can pick whichever is most appealing to you. You good with that, Sam?”

“Yeah, I like all of these three roles, so, like, no pressure or anything there, Sunny.”

He hesitated, brow furrowing over the options. Sebastian had a hunch which one he’d choose: he’s gonna go for the Cleric, totally. It suits him.

And to his surprise, after several beats of quiet, Sunny picked up the Warrior. He picked up one of the pencils offered to him and wrote something beside the blank “Name” category. His lips twisted in a thinly veiled chortle, shoulders quivering with muffled laughter:

“CLOUDY MCRAINSON.”

He looked overly, stupidly proud at himself for that one. Sebastian stared at the character sheet, blinking once, before shaking his head and snorting. Sam got a good guffaw out of it, calling Sunny a “comedic genius.” No need to go overboard with the praise, buddy.

“Alright, uh, Cloudy,” Sebastian humored, “your base kit’s right there for you toward the bottom already. You just need to roll for the six base stats and allocate them wherever you want using four D6 - uh, these little guys. There’s strength, intelligence, wisdom, vitality, dexterity, and charisma. Since you picked warrior, I’d recommend your higher rolls going toward strength and vitals, but you can do what you’d like. How ‘bout you, Sam? Cleric or - ”

“As if you don’t want to play Wizard. Gimme the Cleric. I’ll be your Healy McFeely.”

“Are we playing Solarion Chronicles or are we browsing its meme subbeddit?” Sebastian handed over the Cleric sheet, but grinned despite his aired complaints. “Crack open the cola, won’t you? I’m thirsty.”

Rolling for base stats took all of ten minutes, what with all the attributes already accounted for. Sebastian spedrun through his to hammer out the final boss dungeon’s own set of hidden attributes. He couldn’t go too hard on them today, what with it being Sunny’s first time and all, but he’d still make it a little challenging. More rewarding that way. He peered over at Sunny’s sheet:

STR: 13

INT: 8

WIS: 11

VIT: 13

DEX: 10

CHA: 24

Alright, so pretty standard rolls - wait.

“You got four sixes?”

“It’s legit, I saw the roll,” Sam attested.

“And you - you put it in charisma.”

Sunny shrugged, but seemed confident in his decision nonetheless. Interesting. Whether or not that would bite him in the ass later in the campaign still remained up in the air. Why wouldn’t you put such a high roll into strength?

Oh well. He was a GM, not a life coach.

“Alright,” he said, cracking his knuckles, “let’s get this show on the road, shall we?”

***

Their merry band of misfit adventurers hailed from a river-laden dwelling, endeavoring forth to break a curse tainting the waters the townsfolk drank. A local citizen tipped them off about the rumors hailing from a corroded fortress over yonder, following a trail north to where the fabled Imp King resided. Between Razforus, Doole (of the esteemed Church of Yolo, practicing the beliefs of living your best current life to the fullest while maintaining the current “living” status using the gods’ gifted holy magics - or so declared Sam), and Cloudy, the three decided to investigate, as proper adventurers ought.

“You come across an aggravated mob of Lurkins patrolling the northbound road,” Sebastian narrated, plucking out his favorite 20-sided die. “They seem peeved at your attempted to find their sworn lord and savior to cease his misdeeds. ‘Go no further!’ they shriek in common tongue, ‘or else you’ll face the wrath of our pointy sticks!’ They are firm in blocking the way. Roll for initiative - that’s the ten-sided dice, Sunny, no the other one, there you go - and we’ll see who can do what first.”

The Lurkins lost initiative for the most part (minus Sebastian’s character, who’s low initiative may prove detrimental to their cause), with Sunny leading the charge with his whopping “1.” This guy had some serious luck sometimes.

Sunny pursed his lips, eraser of his pencil pressed against his cheek, before nodding to himself with a decision (typed out for Sam to understand, and to spare Sebastian the embarrassment of not understanding every other word):

I ROLL TO CONVINCE THEM THAT I AM THEIR ONE TRUE LORD AND TO WORK FOR ME INSTEAD SO WE CAN SPEAK WITH THEIR OFFENDING IMPOSTER WHO DOESN’T OFFER ENOUGH GENEROUS COMPENSATION FOR THEIR NOBLE DEEDS.

A beat passed. Sam blinked, eyebrows lifting to the moon, before stuffing his knuckles into his mouth to muffle his laughter.

“I,” Sebastian started, then clicked his teeth together shut. He did give the Warrior a bit of an ego in the character synopsis section he wrote, and, stacked with his motivation to attain glory, becoming a lord of some kind might very well work within the given parameters. “Do you think Rainy is smart enough to come up with that plan?”

NO. I THINK HE’S DUMB ENOUGH TO THINK IT WILL WORK. Sunny tapped the low-scoring INT stat.

“Fair enough. Roll for persuasion.”

The merry band of misfit adventurers (and their newfound Lurkin minions, all hailing Cloudy McRainson as their true, impassionate leader, striving to attain a better tomorrow for Lurkin kind across the realm as they have faced undue hardships due to a history of horrors when pitted against human-based kingdoms usurping them from their homes and forced to persevere in utter destitution) proceeded north unhindered. (Doole shed several tears along the way, moved by the Lurkins’ tales of cruelty, and promised their new friends to report to the Church and see if there were any missionary services to lend aid to the restoration of their lands.)

(Razforus, utterly befuddled and bemused by the turn of events, simply watched on with a shake of his wrinkled head.)

“You arrive at the foreboding fortress, overwrought with spiky thorns and sporting varying degrees of dilapidation. The air smells horrible, like decay, and there are stagnant pools of putrid water dotting the grounds. There are two different ways to go about this - sneaking in, and charging in head-first. Razforus advises sneaking in, as it may give you a sneak-attack advantage.”

“But that means we’re, like, gonna find a lot more traps, and Raz’s the only one with trap detection skills. If he fails, we’re screwed.”

“And what if the front door is a trap as well?”

“Uhhhh. Oh. Uh.” Sam frowned and leaned back in his chair, thinking. “But doesn’t the Imp King, like, use the front door? He has to get out of his fortress sometimes, so it’s probably guarded and stuff, meaning less likely to have traps. Fighting we can handle, but I don’t trust my health bar to not go ka-put if we go the roundabout way.”

Which was correct. The number of differing snaking rooms littered with nefarious nasties all about. Not even Rainy could convince the higher-tiered creatures lingering within to join forces.

So of course he did with shit-stupid rolls, when they decided in a two-to-one vote to go the back way in order to score additional initiative points against the big boss. Rainy’s growing legion, however, lead to more problems than solutions when an internal spat occurred between the Lurkins and Giggle Gloppers. However, using Rainy’s public speaking skills (seriously, what rolls did this Warrior get when Sebastian crafted him?), he managed to calm the antagonizing sides into a temporary agreement.

I DON’T THINK I’VE EVER TYPED SO MUCH IN ONE SITTING IN MY LIFE. Sunny let out a relieved sigh once Sebastian announced his success. I NEVER THOUGHT I COULD GET SO INVESTED IN THE WELLBEING OF FICTIONAL CREATURES.

“You and me both,” Sam said, keeping a pad of paper to keep track of their little monstrous crew. “I thought for sure we were super screwed here, but, like, I think we might actually have a chance to win this mini campaign here. Seb’s notorious for creating run-killers though, so we can’t let our guard down.”

Correct. In fact, if Sebastian played his strats right, he could utterly decimate the adventurers in one, possibly two turns upon arrival to the throne room. He straightened his back in confidence, keeping his expression blithe. He shrugged. “We’ll see,” he said, and Sunny quirked in eyebrow.

After a sidestory of saving entrapped experiments within the dungeon, they at last stood face to face with the devilish Imp King, sitting tall in a throne composed of miscellaneous bone and overlooking the vacated courtroom. With a deep, shuddering inhale, the King rose to his feet, joints popping in various places and yellowed eyes narrowing at those who betrayed him.

“Very well,” said the King, a cloud of darkness enshrouding his form, “I offered you life, yet you spit upon it and yearn for death. This will be my final kindness to you - and those you dare to align yourselves with.”

They rolled initiative. Doole’s turn arrived first, prompting him to spin out a protective shield upon many of their party members. Razforus readied a three-turn incantation to build up damage. The Imp King, breathing out a foul stench spewed from his rotted mouth, took aim at one of the Lurkins. The damage rendered it on the brink of perishing.

“Your turn, Rainy,” Sebastian said, lacing his fingers together in piqued interest. So far, he’s proved a bit more orthodox than Abigail’s typical gun-ho approach to missions, and a little less ride-or-die with a sprinkle of caution depending on his role than Sam. “What will you do?”

Sunny’s brow furrowed, forefinger tapping against the table, dice rolling in his free palm. He picked up his phone and began typing, tap tap tap, his next fated action. Depending what he did here, next turn could be an entire party wipe; the Imp King had tricks up his sleeve to retain leadership over the Lurkins, given the party’s inability to keep them safe. Too many enemies would inevitably overrun them, and end the campaign.

He held up his phone:

I ROLL TO CONVINCE THE IMP KING TO RETHINK HIS LEADERSHIP STYLE AND LISTEN TO HIS NOW-UNIONIZED EMPLOYEES INSTEAD OF FIGHTING THE TIDES OF CHANGE TO A BETTER TOMORROW.

“Power to the Lurkins!” Sam cheered.

“I’m gonna level with you here,” Sebastian said, scooping up a handful of dice, “unless I roll low and you roll high enough, this has the slimmest chances of success. And if it backfires, well. You sure you want to risk it all?”

FOR THE LURKINS’ FUTURE, Sunny hashed out, nodding in utmost confidence on behalf of his newfound imaginary friends. THIS IS WHAT IT MEANS TO BE A WARRIOR - TO DEFEND THE INNOCENT TO THE LAST IN THE HOPES OF BRINGING ABOUT PEACE AND RENDERING MY PROFESSION NULL AND VOID. I THINK.

Knowing him, it made sense. Sebastian chuckled and shook his head; for a mish-mashed session, it still somehow turned out fun. Sam and Sunny beamed at him, hearing the clatter of his dice and the roll hidden behind a propped-up binder.

“Alright,” he said, nodding once, and Sunny clutched the die in his resolved palms, “cast the lot for your and their future.”

***

And they lived happily ever after: the Imp King, having attained reason and realizing his mistakes, decided to concentrate his efforts on making his people of refugees a happier kind. In doing so, the adventurers returned to the village, and with them a truce to benefit those who lived there and the dastardly fortress to the far north. The rivers at last ran clean once again. The Lurkins still had a long way to go to get their true goal of returning home, but, hand-in-hand with their reforming true lord, they knew they would get there one day.

What of the adventurers? Well. Their story would continue in another tale, echoed in the echelons of history…

THE END

***

Cleaning up post-session took a lot of time, what with reorganizing the dice boxes, filing papers into their proper locations, and ensuring the texts already on the brink of falling apart sat in their sturdier book sleeves to prolong their longevity. The empty snacks and soda bottles were cleared out by Sam while Sunny helped with the odds and ends, not quite knowing what to do with his hands. Sam excused himself a little later, saying his Mom needed some help wrangling Vincent to come to dinner.

When he left, a quiet settled over Sebastian’s basement abode.

“So,” Sebastian said, stretching out his back after completing the last finishing touches to a haphazard reorganization process, “did you have fun? I know it’s not for everyone, and it’s pretty impressive you went the whole deal without ever once dealing damage. Don’t think you could pull that off long term and with a different character sheet, though.”

IT WAS NICE. I’VE NEVER DONE PAPER RPGS BEFORE. BUT THAT WAS A LOT OF FUN. I THINK I NEEDED THAT BREAK.

Abigail’s and Maru’s comments resurfaced from the tucked away recesses of his thoughts. He tilted his head. “You could,” he started, then his tone got swallowed in an unfamiliar bashfulness, “like, come over. More often. Just to hang out and talk or - yeah. Whenever you get too overwhelmed with farm stuff. I’d offer to help out or whatever, but I think I’d do more harm than good to what you’ve built so far. But yeah.”

I DON’T WANT TO INTERJECT IN YOUR UPCOMING BAND PERFORMANCE PRACTICES.

“Just text me to see if I’m free. You’ve got my number, remember? It’s no big deal. Besides, I’m sure Sam still wants to try and rope you into it. Ever play an instrument?”

I’M NOT GOOD AT A LOT OF THINGS, AND MUSIC IS DEFINITELY ONE OF THEM. ESPECIALLY WHEN PLAYING ON STAGE. IT’S A DISASTER WAITING TO HAPPEN.

“Well, it’s gonna probably be around Spirt’s Eve, so we can just drape a sheet over you and call you a ghost. Wouldn’t have to see a soul.” Sebastian grinned at his own ingenious idea. “We’ll give you a synthesizer to play notes on and you could serenade even the hottest guy in town with just a few quick lessons.”

Sunny blinked once, thumb resting hard on one of the keys, repeatedly spamming PPPPPPPPPPPP ad nauseam. His bronze skin took on a glint of crimson, rushing all the way to his cheeks. His gaze darted to one side, thumb lifting off the keypad, before typing out with heightened urgency:

HOTTEST GUY?

“I know there’s not a whole lot of choices out here,” Sebastian elaborated, a little confused at Sunny’s strange reaction. He took a seat in his comfy computer chair, leaning back and listening to it creak in complaint of his weight. It only started doing that recently; was he gaining weight? Maybe he needed to cut back on Mom’s cooking a little. “But, hey, maybe someone’ll stick out from the crowd. I dunno.”

HOW?

“How - what?”

HOW DO YOU, Sunny typed out with increasing alacrity, KNOW I’M GAY?

Wait. Wait, oh no. Sebastian’s critical error brought up numerous 404 pages in the glitching mindscape now overrun with panic. Oh shit. He wasn’t supposed to know that, Sam told him that. Sam blurted it out like it was today’s weather report, partly cloudy, chance of rainbows, highs in the mid-to-upper oh Yoba’s. His chair snapped back into proper position, his palms growing clammy with the sensation of getting caught.

“I.” He stared back at Sunny, who shared the same panic and appeared ready to bolt out of the room at any second. “Uh. On accident. I guess. But it’s not - like, I mean, it doesn’t, it’s not like it bothers me or - I still like you.”

He remembered rehearsing this conversation once upon a time, and he sounded much more eloquent, much more casual. Much more rude. Now, as he rose from his chair and approached Sunny with delicate footsteps as not to spook him, his words tumbled from his mouth like a dying motorcycle engine, revving then sputtering then revving once again. “You’re fine,” he assured, a distant part of him wondering why he was so fine telling Sam his apparent secret and not Sebastian, “I’m not gonna hate you. Okay?”

He took hold of Sunny’s wrist as a precautionary measure to stop him from potentially running. Sunny mentioned he hated confrontations, and while this wasn’t supposed to be one, it might very well feel like it to him. Sebastian needed to tread carefully here.

“Did someone say something to you? Like, did they hate you just because you’re…?”

He shook his head defiantly, but the expression flared with a distinct pain. Man, what a terrible liar.

“Sunny. Look at me.”

Trembles coursed through Sunny’s arm. He bit his bottom lip and, with a facade of hardly managed calm, adhered to Sebastian’s request. His eyes swam with uncertainty. How? The question blared in all caps in his head. How the hell could anyone hate this guy for any reason, let alone him liking guys? Sure, yeah, Sebastian didn’t - couldn’t - understand it when girls were literally right there being cute and shit, but hating someone over trivial bullshit like that?

Another question, angrier this time, louder, clearer, on repeat: Who. Who. Who hurt you like this. Give me their name, I’ll grab Sam and Abby and we can have a little talk down by the beach, a little lesson, a sting for every pain you ever endured from this jackass’s words.

But he didn’t ask either. Instead, his grip tightened around Sunny’s wrist, lips parting, staring up at a man who invaded his life and chose to stick around despite his own shitty attitude. For a moment, he cocked his head toward the loudening thud thud thud he believed to be coming from the staircase, possibly Mom coming to tell him dinner’s ready. In the next, he realized, oh.

That’s my heartbeat. Why is it so loud?

“You’re a great guy, no matter what any douchebag says. Okay? Your greatest character flaw is that you bang into doors and trip over your feet way too damn much. You also spread yourself a little too thin and suck at sharing your real feelings. But, hell, I mean, don’t we all suck at that? There’s no reason to hate you for anything. And the guy you’re gonna fall in love with, he’s going to appreciate the hell out of you so much that no matter what anyone else says, it won’t matter. You got that? Fuck them, Sunny. Don’t let them beat you down. We like you and are here for you.”

Sunny exhaled slowly through his nose. He looked away, then down at his entrapped arm, hand dangling loose in the air. A small, hesitant smile returned - oh, good, Sebastian must’ve said something right, because good Yoba he was winging it harder than a baby seagull trying to fly for the first time - and he retracted his wrist.

Then, he signed something.

Sebastian didn’t know then what all the signs meant. That was probably Sunny’s intention. He understood a few, like “I” and “LIKE,” but the translation steadily became jumbled from there. At Sebastian’s struggling squint, Sunny pulled out his phone and typed out,

THANK YOU. I LIKE YOU GUYS, TOO. I’M GLAD WE ARE FRIENDS.

Sebastian nodded and nudged Sunny on the shoulder with his knuckles gently. “Yeah, man. Don’t stress about it, okay? I mean it. All this talking’s got me hungry though - want me to see if Mom made enough for an extra person before you head out? Yeah? Here, feel free to chill out, and I’ll be right back.”

It wasn’t what he signed at all.

Sebastian wouldn’t know until weeks later, probably months, the full extent of Sunny’s message, a loose interpretation of calloused fingers dancing in tandem with the call of the void:

HOW CAN ANYONE EVER LIKE ME IF I DON’T DESERVE IT?

By the time he learned -

“Sunny,” he breathed -

- it was a little too late. Too late to ask the right questions, too late to do something more than make an ass of himself. Too late, beneath the gentle cold rain, surrounded by a carpet sewn from dead leaves, the squawks of ravens overhead decorating barren branches, an umbrella’s canopy snapped and broken to one side, a dropped cellphone in the mud, crushed tin cans adorning the footpath, a shaking hand outstretched,

“Sunny!”

a train whistling in the distance.

Chapter Text

“Good afternoon, one and all, and welcome to Welwick’s Oracle - here to give you insight on the inner workings of our spirit friends. What will today have for us in store? Let’s take a look, shall we?”

Why Mom bothered to listen to such baloney, Sebastian would never understand. He finished scarfing down his lunch, consisting of a granola bar and some day old beef stroganoff, before picking up the umbrella off the kitchen table. He had no dire need to finish projects today, meaning he could fully devote his time to the beach. No one else would be around in this kind of weather.

“Heading out?” Mom called from the living room.

“For a bit.”

She craned her neck and eyed the umbrella in his hands, expression unreadable. “Alright,” she said softly, an understanding tone weaved in, “take care, Sebby. Don’t stay out so long you get sick.”

“I’m not twelve,” he retorted, pulling on his shoes.

“I know, honey. I just worry. That’s what Moms do. Oh, remember to keep your schedule open for tomorrow, yeah? We’re carving pumpkins, and if you want dibs on the roasted seeds, you’d better get your butt out of bed by ten.”

He licked his lips. Roasted pumpkin seeds sounded delicious, despite the amount of time and effort it took to harvest them. “No need to tell me twice,” he said. “Later.”

“The spirits are rather peeved today,” said the suave, coaxing voice emanating from the television. Sebastian rolled his eyes and opened the front door, where the rain beat down upon Pelican Town without remorse. “They will do their best to make your life difficult this evening, so take precautionary measures and schedule for impending traffic delays. Your lucky item for the night is a rain coat.”

***

The vacant pier laid out its slick wooden planks like a discounted red carpet in anticipation of Sebastian’s predictable arrival. The posts bore new fastened thick ropes around them, keeping the crab pots from floating away into the Gem Sea. He paused at the end of the pier, fished out his cigarettes from his sweatshirt’s pocket, and struggled to light one of the stupid things. He inhaled, exhaled. The waves lapped against the beach, calm despite the autumn rain.

Quiet.

He kept his gaze fixed out to sea, waiting. If he dared peel his eyes away for even a second during his observation, he knew he would miss Dad’s return. He knew. It would be just a breath, a fraction, an afterthought of a person who’s face once etched in every childhood memory now faded with each stacked-upon year. Raindrops drizzled onto his hair, his bangs dripping and causing him to blink more frequently than not. Cold. Cold, but not uncomfortable. It kept him awake at least.

Minutes or hours passed. One cigarette became two or five, the pack steadily growing lighter, a pile snuffed close to his soaked shoes. Distantly, the telltale thumps of slowed footsteps reached his ears, but he paid them no mind. Willy came and went from the shop all the time. The thumps drew closer, heavier, yet still bearing a cautious countenance to them.

It had to be him. Of course it would be. Who else ran around in the rain without regard to their wellbeing? Sebastian bit his bottom lip and frowned at the half-burnt cigarette. Not that he could talk.

“Hey,” he said, stare fixated outward, “Sunny.”

Sunny stood within Sebastian’s peripheral vision. He sported a bright yellow raincoat, its hood lifted in feeble protection. It crinkled with every slight movement. He lifted his hand in greeting, keeping a reasonable distance from Sebastian on his left hand side. It didn’t look like he came to fish today, given his lack of a fishing rod, but he did sport that cooler always filled with goodies of some sort.

They stood without speaking, neither with hands or mouths. Sebastian flicked the butt of his cigarette before taking another tempting inhale. Beside him, the raincoat crinkled with each rummage through the cooler. It sounded like ice cubes grating together, toppling into each other like a child’s forgotten PLAYGOS on the living room floor for their parents to step on. After a few moments, Sunny uprighted himself, cupping something delicately in his large hands. He held it close to his chest for a moment, as if uncertain, before extending it to Sebastian.

“For me?”

The yellow hood flopped when he nodded. Sebastian, without turning away from the placid waters, reached out and took - it felt like a jar. Glass, freezing to the touch. He almost dropped it from shock, but quickly recovered. Something clattered within; whatever it was, it felt light, possibly hollow. He spared one more glance at the ocean - he’ll come today, I just know it, whispered the child - before wiping the frost buildup off with his sleeve.

He blinked.

Then gaped.

Inside resided an off-white and symmetrical teardrop-shaped stone, preserved with utmost care and consideration. From his understanding, this type of rock melted like antarcticite long before being excavated from underground, leaving naught but a slush-fest of concentrated chemicals. He remembered, once upon a time in that shitty library, that they had a preserved tear (claimed to be a tedious process involving blah blah blah, little Sebastian didn’t understand any of the big words) on display, and he found himself enraptured by it. That had long-since vanished like all else within the library. Coincidentally, that was around the same time he ceased going there.

“This is,” he started, unable to keep the clear delight from his voice, “a Frozen Tear, right? A legit one?”

More enthusiastic nods. Then, after closing the cooler, Sunny signed, [YOU LIKE?]

“Like? Are you kidding me? I love this. Holy crap, where did you even find this?” He held up the jar and observed the tear from all angles, marveling at how superior it reigned over all other gemstones in his eyes. Sure, obsidians were cool and all too, but to find a perfect tear like this - no one would find something so rare in the usual arcane arts shops in cities across the republic. “Are you sure you want to give this to me? This is - wow. I won’t blame you if you change your mind.”

He caught glimpse of Sunny’s smile shadowed under his hood, hands pushing the jar even closer into Sebastian. Wow. It was so stunning, he nearly forgot why he came out to the beach in the first place.

“Thanks,” he said, setting it down carefully next to his feet. He had nowhere to put it other than his pocket, and that was already occupied. He’d have to make sure to be super careful lugging it back home later. “I don’t have anything to give you back, though.”

[FINE YOUR COMPANY ENOUGH.] Sunny bent down and closed the cooler. Man, it must’ve been cold, rummaging through ice with no gloves.

“Don’t take this the wrong way, but how come you give out presents so much in the first place?” He spotted Sunny give handouts to a lot of residents around before, usually on Friday nights at the bar. He always had something to give, something considered with great thought. Most of the time he brought foraged flowers or bought the fellow Stardrop patrons a beer or some food.

[PEOPLE SMILE.]

[PEOPLE SAD ME SAD. WANT EVERYONE SMILE. SAD YOU LOOKED HERE. HOME WENT. BACK. GIVE PRESENT. SMILE!] He concluded with a thumbs up, pleased with his efforts. Then the smile softened as he pushed his hood back a little, possibly to look down at Sebastian a little better. His brow perched upward in concern. [YOU OKAY? STAND HERE LONG TIME. RAIN.]

When did Sunny pass by to see him? Sebastian got so lost in his own lonesome, repetitive thoughts that he didn’t notice. He turned his head back toward the sea, the same ocean that greeted him with a never-changing surface. No flashes of scales, no sounds of song, no parting of water to introduce the underwater kingdom’s entourage. He shook his head, grin turning mirthless.

Sure. Why not. Why not spill his guts out to a guy who’s been nothing but kind to him? The thought simultaneously petrified and relieved him. Abigail and Sam, his best friends, they were the only ones in town who had a vague notion of why he did this. He talked around it in circles, mostly because he didn’t know how to bring up what happened back then. He didn’t want to burden Sunny either, but he wanted to be selfish, just for a second.

Right now, here on the vacated pier, he just wanted the child in his head that incessantly repeated the same lie to shut the fuck up.

“Before I say anything, I need you to promise me you won’t laugh, no matter what comes out of my mouth. Got it?”

The concern turned to confusion, picturesque and belonging in an artist’s reference book. He nodded once anyhow, slowly, to convey the utmost seriousness he would take in Sebastian’s impending utterances. He breathed in, tasting salt and withering leaves, before scratching the back of his head out of nerves.

“Hard to know where to start. I guess I’m sure you’ve probably picked up on this routine of mine at least. Standing here,” he gestured to the pier, “when it rains. Dunno how old I was when it started - maybe when Mom finally got too busy with her business to get upset at me whenever I left the house for hours at a time. Know how people say, like, when you get super angry and stuff, you should scream at the ocean or whatever? It’s kind of like that, but - well, not at all like that, I guess. How do I say this.”

Sunny shuffled a pinch closer in reassurance. His black pants were soaked through. Sebastian frowned and, in a bid to buy himself some more thinking time, rummaged through his pocket, pulling out the hideously striped red-and-white umbrella. Recognition flashed in Sunny’s eyes as Sebastian opened it, then lifted his arm up high to try and cover them both. Seriously, why was Sunny so tall? After a moment, Sunny snickered that gravelly laugh of his at the way Sebastian’s arm struggled to keep them some facsimile of “dryness,” then took the umbrella himself to prop it up.

“Thanks. That’s much better.”

Sunny nodded in agreement. Like this, Sebastian’s shoulder lightly touched Sunny’s arm, the raincoat crinkling from the touch. He cleared his throat.

“Anyways. I think you’ve gathered this by how pasty I am, but I’m not Demetrius’s son. Maru’s my step-sister. Mom had me with my actual Dad. Yeah, I know this is a weird seemingly non-sequitur, but this is - it has everything to do with this. Dad was around for the beginning parts of my life, y’know? ‘Til about five or six or so. He stayed home while Mom tried to get her carpentry business off the ground. So, obviously, I hung out with him a lot.”

He itched to dig out another cigarette, feeling the jitters beginning to seize his fingers. With Sunny so close and not being a smoker himself, though, he decided against it. Second-hand smoking kills, said the PSAs on TV.

“Dad wasn’t,” he started, frowned, then tried again, “Dad did his best. No idea how Mom met and fell in love with the guy, ‘cause she never told me. She never talks about him ever, actually. Sometimes I thought I imagined my entire Dad’s existence, but there’re photographs. Haven’t looked at them in forever. Anyways.” He clicked his tongue at his own ramblings, how incoherent and jumbled his own flow of consciousness became. “To me, you know, he was like, my hero. Right? It’s normal for kids to look up to their parents.”

Sunny nodded again, but kept his free hand in his oversized pocket. He readjusted his grip of the umbrella.

“He wasn’t really hero material. Not that I could’ve known that, obviously. And it’s not like he showed me what an actual shitty person he was ‘til the very end, but - I mean, he’s my Dad. I can’t hate him. I’ve tried to. I thought it would make it easier to deal with what happened, but it just made everything so much worse. And it’s not like I can be Mom and just move on. I don’t know how easily she did, it’s like, she got amnesia or something then went on and married Demetrius and had Maru. I just don’t get it. I get pissy, like, whenever Demetrius tries to step in and be ‘fatherly’ or whatever ‘cause he’s not my Dad. He’s not Dad. No one else can be Dad. You know? But I feel like shit ‘cause he tries. He tries too damn hard and has expectations of me like any parent would, right, but fuck, he doesn’t get me. He never did. Not like Dad did.”

He ground his teeth together and glared at the ocean. He stuffed his hands into his sweatshirt’s pocket, picking at the lint crusted within. It needed to be washed in proper hot water and detergent soon.

“Dad told stories. About everything I liked. The stars, the moon, frogs, bugs - you name it, Dad had a tale for it. His imagination knew no bounds. I spent years believing the frogs in the pond in that forest near your house belonged to some stupid kingdom and swore allegience to the prettiest frog in all the land. But a good chunk of the stories talked about the ocean. The mermaids. The hidden civilization far from human eyes. And, you know, being a kid like me, of course I believed in that stuff. But so did he. He more than me. He more than everyone.

“We didn’t know how hard he believed in his own delusions ‘til the day he tried to kill me.”

He spoke it so quietly, he wondered if Sunny heard him at all. But the bright yellow blob beside him jumped at the admittance, wide eyes peering at Sebastian’s face with unequivocal fear.

“I mean, I’m still here. He didn’t succeed, chill out.” He cracked a tired grin, nudging Sunny lightly with a half-closed fist on the arm. “And he won’t even be able to try for a round two, either.”

But he’ll come back, the child insisted, hands bawled into fists in naive defiance. He said so. Dad never ever lies, ever. It’ll be today, I know it.

The alarm in Sunny’s face ebbed a fraction, but he still bit his bottom lip, eyebrows knitting together in an unasked, Are you sure? Sebastian gave him another nudge, knuckles lingering for a few beats too long. His hand dropped back to his side.

“Before he and Mom got married, Dad already had a criminal record. Class-C felonies for theft, drug possession, stuff like that. Before, you know, the republic got all uppity about drugs and raised jail time for it and stuff. He got off pretty easy. But she must’ve been in love with him anyways, and she and my grandparents have huge differences in moral values, so she might’ve done it as a middle finger to them too. I don’t know. Like I said, she doesn’t talk about it.

“When Mom worked, I stayed with Dad. We’d go outside all the time, catching frogs or coming to the beach or waiting for the train to come by. This town didn’t have much for kids back then. The playground hadn’t been installed yet, and the community center, well. You know how that’s been taken care of. I think the mayor’s given up ever since Joja came around. But Dad somehow made every day fun.

“I dunno when it happened, but he relapsed back on painkillers. I remember him telling me to not tell Mom ‘cause it was our secret, and I didn’t really like Mom too much back then, so I just - I never told her. Not that I’d even know what to tell her, other than Dad now had an orange bottle. I felt special, y’know? I didn’t understand just how it would lead to - to, uh. His snap, I guess. That’s what I call it, because what happened then wasn’t really Dad. I can’t believe that. It wasn’t him, but the drugs. It had to be. I dunno what sort of side-effects or what brand or whatever he had, but it just - I don’t know. Maybe he took something else, too.

“It all came to a head when I couldn’t sleep. I heard the train going by, you know, the one that comes around three in the morning. At least it used to, I haven’t heard it go by that late anymore. So I got all excited to go out and see it, but when I went into the kitchen, Dad was there.”

He remembered it vividly: the dull kitchen light flicked on, the toppled-over bottle, Dad’s jittering leg, his head buried in his hands, his fingers digging into the wrinkles lining his forehead. Little Sebastian toddled over in his pajamas, unaware. Little Sebastian, a heart full of admiration and trust and love for a father who probably no longer felt the same, but he couldn’t believe that. Little Sebastian who opened his mouth, called out, “Dad?” and approached the monster who impersonated the person he thought he knew.

Maybe Maru wasn’t off the ball with her aliens instigating intergalactic war, after all. He snorted and shook his head.

“When he saw me, he smiled the same as always. Everything was the same as always. He offered me a snack and then started talking while I ate. It was kind of mumbly, but I thought he was tired ‘cause it was really late. And then he apologized. I asked why, but he didn’t answer me directly. Instead, he offered a late-night trip to the beach to go mermaid watching. He said, I know something special’ll happen this time, I promise.”

He promised, said the child. Its mirage to Sebastian’s right materialized, staring down at its rain boots.

“So, y’know, I had no reason not to go. I took his hand and we went to the beach. It was raining, like today. Not like super hard or anything, but the wind was pretty loud. He held onto me tight. We got to the beach, and you could see the whitecaps whenever the moon poked out from behind the clouds. Mom always told me to not go swimming in the ocean when it’s that bad, ‘cause one wave could pull you into a rip current and you’d never resurface ever again.

“Dad wanted to go in.”

More seagulls began to congregate on the big rock, yacking up a storm of gossip.

“He said the mermaids were waiting for us. That he got an invitation or whatever from the king of the sea, that we were the chosen humans or whatever. I didn’t quite understand him at this point, he kept going on and on and on so fast I could barely keep up. When he turned to smile at me, that’s when I knew. I knew I fucked up somehow, because that wasn’t Dad smiling. It didn’t look right at all. He looked possessed.

“I wouldn’t go in. I told him I wanted to go home back to Mom, and he said we had to leave her behind because she wasn’t chosen. Hate to say it, but I was pretty freaked out at that point, so I was crying and - you know. Screaming. Telling him to let go of me, but I mean, at that point it was like yelling at the ocean, right? Pointless as hell. The ocean doesn’t give a shit about your feelings, and Dad didn’t give a shit about mine at that point either. He had a mission, and it was to take me with him into Lala Land.

“He, uh. Struck me. Twice. It was the first time he ever hit me. He told me to stop shouting, that I was scaring the mermaids away. So obviously I didn’t. I screamed louder, and he started dragging me by force, talking nonsense all the while. When we got into the water, I began panicking like crazy and begging him to cut it out. I thought if he could see me scared, he’d stop, ‘cause he was my Dad.

“Instead he pushed me face-first into the ocean, and I still didn’t know how to swim without a lifevest at that point.”

The sunless sea consumed him, and his terrified mind believed that the mermaids’ hands were pulling him down, down, down. Somewhere along the line, his head bobbed up, coughing and sputtering and calling for his father, but Dad was already way ahead of him, walking right into the waves battering upon his body. His arms outstretched, head cocked back, laughing, thanking the mermaids for freeing him from something. He looked back at Sebastian, smile exposing the yellowed canines: If you don’t come now, Papi will come back for you some other day, I promise. Another wave washed over him, and Dad was gone - and soon, Sebastian thereafter.

He needed to save Dad. He had to. He couldn’t swim, and he was choking on salt, and his arms, legs, and lungs burned from exertion, but Dad needed help. He begged a prayer to the frog prince in the clouded moon above to do something - anything.

A tug pulled him out of the memory. Sunny stared down at him, eyes riddled with worry. Sebastian blinked once, then twice, before realizing he trailed off.

“I,” he started again, the frog prince lodged in his throat, “sorry. It’s just - you know, once you start thinking too hard about the past, it just kinda becomes. Real. Again.”

Sunny hesitated, then draped one arm onto Sebastian’s shoulders. The sudden touch almost made Sebastian flinch. If it were anyone else, he would’ve batted them away - well, maybe not Abby or Sam. Sunny left his arm there, thumb rubbing in cautious circles against the cotton of Sebastian’s sweatshirt.

“Mom found me. She woke up in time and ran to look for us after seeing the pills on the table and stuff. She heard me screaming and got me out of the water, but Dad - he was long gone at that point. Her priority was me first, so she got me out and took me right back home. I was a wreck, but I remember the police coming by, and - yeah. It wasn’t - I just. He disappeared into the sea.

“I couldn’t really process it. Who would, right? But I really couldn’t handle the thought that Dad would, like, try to kill me.”

Dad would never do that, the child protested.

“So I just - I decided, no. No, he wasn’t trying to do that. I mean, I kind of know better now, but part of me still believes it. That he really just wanted to go to the mermaid kingdom, and that he wanted me to go with him. I remembered that mermaids are mostly active on rainy days when it chases most humans away, so I just - I started to look for Dad. I come here to wait for him.”

For years. The search and rescue teams never recovered Dad’s body, so no one knew for sure (except everyone but Sebastian did) if he drowned or not.

“It’s so fucking stupid, right? Like, the guy tried to take me with him, and I come here almost every time it rains to look for him? What idiot does that?” He started to laugh, crooked and wet. “I know, like. I know he was fucking zonked out of his mind, and Mom wanted to move past him and his bullshit. She wanted to give me a normal life, a normal Dad. She remarried, and she pretends like Dad never existed. But he’s still right here,” he clutched his chest, “always right here, and I can’t forget. I can’t forget, no matter how hard I try, and it sucks. I just - I want him to come back. I want him to apologize. I want - ”

Anguish sank its wretched claws into his lungs and pricked at his eyes. He shuddered out another labored breath. His legs almost buckled, and he leaned into Sunny’s chest.

“I wanted,” he whispered, “the Dad who loved me above all else to be in my life, and now I’ll never have him ever again.”

The child began to cry. The child sniveled, wiping his face on his soaked sleeve, hiccupping through the quiet Dad?s that escaped his quivering lips. That child grew into a teenager, into a young adult, into a man who remained guarded against any platitudes of trusting others, still crying, still sucking air through clenched teeth, cheek mushed into a plastic yellow raincoat.

“I’m sorry,” he choked out, “shit - this wasn’t how this was supposed to go.”

He heard the raincoat shift, another arm now wrapped around Sebastian’s lower back. He brought his hands up and found purchase in Sunny’s chest, tightening his fists around the fabric. He didn’t need any words of sympathy or advice. Sunny listened. Sunny understood. Sunny accepted him with opened arms.

“I thought maybe it was my fault somehow, ‘cause I couldn’t save Dad. I couldn’t do a single thing. I should know better, but - like, I thought to myself, if I just took those swimming lessons or whatever, as if that’d make any difference, I could’ve been Dad’s hero for a change. So I just - I stand here, like a coward, and do nothing. I just wait. And wait, and wait - while the whole world moves around me. I’m left behind holding a severed rope to a person who cut it in the first place, just wanting them to tie it again. But he won’t. He won’t.”

His throat burned raw from talking so much. He never rambled like this before, so unfiltered and uncalculated. His murmurings vibrated through Sunny, muffled into his chest. He hated being like this. Vulnerable. Oversharing. It felt gross, a peculiar ickiness surging through his veins. He wanted to stop crying, but couldn’t. Like a dam bursting from mounting water pressure, it gushed from his eyes and dribbled into the ocean - a treat for the mermaids that lurked below.

Time passed. The seagulls took off somewhere, and the temperature began to dip. The skies darkened, and the rain lightened up a little, but not completely. Yoba, he felt like absolute dogshit. And starving. His senses came back to him, bit by bit, piece by piece; exhaustion settled a wet blanket over his bones, urging him to close his eyes and pray for a dreamless night.

“Sunny,” he said, croaking, and lifted up his head. Sunny peered down at him, tentative smile on his face. He didn’t sign, nor did he dig out his cellphone to reply to Sebastian’s soliloquy down memory lane. This close, he could see the slightest darkness under Sunny’s eyes. “Sorry,” he said again, “I really didn’t mean to take up all your free time like that with my whining. You gave me a present and everything, and I just, ugh. Talk about lame.”

Sunny shook his head and squeezed Sebastian lightly, as if to say, don’t worry about it. His gaze shifted to the ocean, waves reflected in his dark brown eyes while searching. Then, after a moment, he shook his head again, releasing Sebastian from his grasp. The warmth was missed immediately, replaced by autumn’s chill. He held up the umbrella with the crook of his neck while he signed,

[FATHER NO SEE TODAY.]

What?

“You,” Sebastian took one step back, “were you looking for him for me?”

A nod. Then a flash of worry crossed Sunny’s face.

[THOUGHT IMPORTANT. I DO SOMETHING WRONG?]

This man. Sebastian stared, unable to process Sunny’s existence. This man. His face crumpled, eyes watering again, ugly snot threatening to pour from his nostrils. This man chose to move to Pelican Town, far from Zuzu City, to run a dilapidated, forgotten farm on the outskirts of town, lived in a shack for half a year, worked his ass off for meager profits, took the time to speak to everyone, and didn’t mind killing his free time listening to Sebastian’s problems. He even kept watch over the ocean for Sebastian while he wallowed in his own miserable memories.

If he never moved here - if Sunny decided to abandon the farm altogether - what would Sebastian’s life look like now?

He didn’t want to imagine it.

“No,” he replied, and, after a beat’s second guessing, stepped in for another hug with no pretenses. Sunny stiffened. “No, you didn’t do anything wrong, Sunny. I just can’t believe you’re in my life and willing to put up with me and my crap. That’s all. If you left, I wouldn’t blame you.”

[FRIENDS,] Sunny signed. [GOOD FRIEND. NEVER LEAVE YOU.]

Never leave you.

Sebastian’s heart pounded in his ears, blood rushing up to his face. He must look like a sight: drenched, hair sticking to his forehead, eyes puffy, face now doing its best tomato impression. No one in their right mind would ever find that attractive. Yet his body, with his mind elsewhere, had the audacity to grab Sunny by the collar of his raincoat, yank him down, and nearly clack their teeth together in a sloppy, desperate kiss.

Seconds slowed to a crawl. A rapidly developing internal scream of aaaaaAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA began blasting through his mind’s now frantic thoughts, scrambling to understand what the hell am I doing?! He heard a light thunk beside them - oh, the umbrella, it slipped from Sunny’s grasp - and the rain resumed drizzling atop their heads. Sebastian pulled away first, awkwardly, mechanically, his grip remaining tight around the water resistant fabric.

“Oh,” he whispered, eyes widening at his own stupidity, “oh, Yoba. Oh shit, Sunny, holy shit, I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry, I don’t know what the hell I was thinking, I - ”

Sunny brought his jittery hands up to his own face, face frozen in a perfect expression of shock. He closed, opened, and closed his mouth again. He hid himself behind his fingers, a strange, contorted sound escaping him - something mixed between a squeak and a high-pitched airhorn.

“Sunny?” Damn, he really fucked up big time. Sunny showed zero interest in him romantically-speaking, and, well, the other glaring fact that Sebastian claimed to be heterosexual. He never felt anything towards a guy, ever. Not ever. However, as he stood in the rain, staring, hoping for something he never dreamed to want, all current evidence pointed to the contrary. If he were in one of Sam’s film noirs he loved to watch, the detective would be all, Do you, Sebastian, have interest in one specific man? and he’d have to say - he’d reply - he’d stammer - “Look, man, really, I don’t know what came over me, I just - it just - I’m so sor - ”

A hand cupped Sebastian’s cheek in forewarning, followed by the lightest peck of lips against his own. It was so quick he almost thought he imagined it but, immediately afterward, Sunny ducked his head into the crook of his arm. He scrambled to pick up the discarded umbrella, holding it upright, but almost dropped it a few times.

[I.] He held his hand to his chest.

“Um,” Sebastian answered.

[I GO NOW. BACK HOME. WORK.]

“Right,” he replied lamely, adrenaline spiking and making him lightheaded, “yeah. Me, uh, me too. Projects. You know how it is.”

Sunny nodded, head snapping back and forth so fast he might almost break it. He offered the umbrella back to Sebastian, who held up his hands.

“No, I - I meant to give it back to you sooner anyways. You can keep it. No, Sunny - okay, okay, fine, I’ll keep it this time, but I’ll get it back to you eventually. Um.” He bent down and picked up the snuffed-out stubs of cigarettes and the jar containing the gifted Frozen Tear, hoping his sweating hands wouldn’t drop it on the way back. “I. Thanks? For. For the gift and - everything. Thank you for everything.”

Sunny nodded again, just as hard, hood almost flopping right off. He pulled it back down into its proper position and, with a quick, nervous wave, sped-walked off the pier and across the beach.

“I’ll text you!” Sebastian called as an afterthought, because goddammit, they needed to talk about this later and figure out what the fuck was going on, holy shit. Sunny gave a thumbs up before disappearing up the path leading to town. He sucked in several deep breaths, his rollercoaster of emotions finally shuddering to a stop for the night. He squeezed onto the umbrella’s handle for dear life, unable to shake the strange giddiness now flooding his stomach instead of the dread his father left for him.

He kissed Sunny.

He bent over and rested his palms against his knees, staring at the slats between the wooden planks that spat up the incoming high tide waves. He kissed Sunny. He kissed Sunny. The truth wouldn’t evade him no matter how many times the realization replayed itself. Why? Did he like Sunny like - like that? He needed advice, pronto.

He started off the pier, then paused, looking over his shoulder one more time. Nothing but crab pots and seaweed looked back. He shook his head and, with harried nerves, forced himself back into Pelican Town before veering a sharp left.

Sam answered the door with a big grin as always.

“‘Sup, man? How’d becoming a raisin go? Here, lemme get ya a towel so you can dry off a bit. Oh, can you take your shoes off by the door? Mom vacuumed and all today, so I don’t want her floor to have stains on it. Hungry?”

Good old Sam. The normalcy of it all almost made the past few hours feel like some convoluted daydream. Sebastian closed the umbrella and waited for Sam, who returned with a towel and a bag of Scoritoes. He tossed both at Sebastian, who caught both with rehearsed ease.

“What brings you to this neck of the woods, eh?”

Too much. Sebastian mussed up his hair, now sticking up with static. He shucked off his sweatshirt and hung it on the nearby coatrack, shoes peeled off soon after. His socks squished underneath him, so he removed those as well, draping them over the tongue of the shoes. He stashed the umbrella aside and placed the jar on one of the shelves, making a mental note to pick it up later.

“I think I’m dead and living some kind of fever dream before my soul gets drop-kicked to hell,” he confessed. He opened the Scoritoes and munched on a few, his stomach greatly appreciative.

“Whoa, dude. Something happen? C’mon, let’s book it to my room where you can spill the deets. Vinny’s got a playdate with Jas and Marnie tonight, so we won’t be interrupted at all.”

The safety of Sam’s room provided much needed comfort in the turbulence rocking Sebastian’s life. He stood near his trusted keyboard - right, the concert they were putting on was next week, right after Spirit’s Eve. He should get a few more rounds of practice in beforehand, if he could get his emotions under control.

“I did something stupid.”

“Oh dude, me too.” Sam nodded, eyes closing sagely. “Like, I tried baking some soft dough cookies, right? To be all adult and stuff. Thing is, I’ve never baked cookies before, so instead of grabbing a baking pan, I used a cooling rack. Dough went right through the holes and damn near could’ve burned the house down if I didn’t check on them! Mom gave me the riot act for that one. Spent all afternoon cleaning the oven. Oh well. You know what they say, a trouble a day keeps the - ”

“I kissed Sunny.”

Sam’s ramblings stumbled over themselves into a peculiar chicken-esque squawk, eyebrows lifting to his hairline. His jaw unhinged in its gawking, almost hitting the floor.

“What?”

Sebastian groaned, slapping his hands over his face. “I don’t know what the fuck is happening to me. I see him, my chest hurts. I make him smile, my head’s light. I do the same for Abby, and it’s not the same anymore. I’m supposed to be straight. What’s wrong with me?”

Sam whistled. “Damn, dude, fresh off denial and straight into the fryer, huh? Guess it was kinda the same for me when I found out I was bisexual. It happens.” He shrugged. Wait, what? Sam’s bi? Sebastian blinked, but Sam prattled on without reservation. “If you kissed him, I’m pretty sure that means you probably have feelings for him. I mean, sure, people kiss each other all the time and yadda yadda, but you share kisses like you share your Mom’s pumpkin soup.”

“I never do that.”

“Exactly. So what’s that tell you?”

“I don’t know. I feel like a mess. After I did that, he kissed me back - ”

“Yo, oh man, he kissed you back,” Sam parrotted, clapping once and whooping. “That’s fantastic! You like each other! You gonna start dating? Should I set you two up? I know a great place in Zuzu City - well, then again, it’s a bit on the loud side of things, so maybe not ‘cause you’re all about not dealing with people and stuff, but…”

“Sam!”

“Whoa, yeah, sorry, I’ll slow down my roll here a bit. My b. Okay, so you kissed him, he kissed you. What’s the problem?”

“What’s the - I’ve never done this with a guy before! What the hell do I do next?”

“As much as you’ll hate it, I think you two should, like, talk it out? You know. Like adults. Be all, ‘hey, so, I have honey-nut feelios for you and am two hundred percent into you, wanna challenge Alex and Haley in Pelican Town’s bid for cutest couple ever?’ You’d have my vote. Pretty sure Abby’d be on board, too. My advice? If you wanna swoon him, take him someplace special, y’know. That’ll make shit magical.”

“What, now you watch chick-flicks? Got sick of the detective stuff already?” Still, a place came to mind - a secret hideaway he took his motorcycle out to whenever he needed space to think and get away from the humdrum of his life. Did Sunny like the stars? He hoped so. Wait, he hoped so? He clicked his tongue. “I don’t even know if what I feel is legit or not. What if it’s a fluke?”

“Buddy, pal. Homie.” Sam slung an arm over Sebastian’s toweled shoulders. “Listen to a pro on this, alright?”

“Pro, huh.”

“Har har, not everyone can find themselves a Sunny of their dreams, alright? Imagine if, I dunno, I started dating him, yeah? How would that make you feel? If you saw us, y’know, making out in the back of the Stardrop Saloon or whatever.”

“Ew?”

“After the ew, stay with me here. Okay, how about this: us holding hands. Being annoyingly cutesy together and shit. What’s the first thing that comes to mind?”

A flare of jealousy swarmed him, similar to how he felt whenever Sunny and Abigail interacted. Except now, those feelings - they centered entirely around Sunny. When did that change? When did his feelings shift? And how did they go so unnoticed for so long, simmering under the surface of his subconscious?

More importantly, why? He barely knew the guy. He didn’t even know his favorite color - okay, a lie, he loved yellow. And oranges. But his favorite food - nope, that was vegetable pizza, he knew that too. His favorite games surfaced as well, a little internalized checklist of Sunny’s favorite things dancing in his head like he Google searched his Dikipedia page and it revealed all his likes, dislikes, and hobbies.

He had it bad, didn’t he.

And Sunny. Did he like Sebastian back? Why? Of course, asking questions to himself would net little results. Speaking to a person was different than speaking at a computer; you couldn’t just wing it with your own musings. Codes could produce all the results you ever wanted, so long as they were inputted right, but people were never predictable. Not entirely. Not even Sunny.

His thoughts came to a halt when a little ding notification emanated from his cellphone. He knew the sound well; it came from one of his favorite old school video games, Conclusion Creation VI, a soundbite of EXP obtained, and currently assigned to Sunny’s ringtone. His heart stuttered to a stop. Sam cocked an eyebrow, then grinned.

“Don’t lemme stop you. Pretend I’m not even here.”

“Thanks,” Sebastian muttered, hoping he sounded more displeased than he actually felt. He swiped up the screen several times and tapped the message icon with great trepidation. Even though he already knew who sent it, seeing Sunny’s name at the top of the screen ignited the burning sensation in his cheeks again.

Only to be immediately doused with the cold water of reality when he read its contents:

Sunny: hep l

He blinked, glancing down to see the thought bubble bobbing in the corner, indicating another message incoming. The chime jingled again:

Sunny: cin derspa first ner clifs

Sunny: wont red my msgs to stp him

Sunny: hury

In the span of knowing Sunny, Sebastian already held several truths self-evident. One, he probably could lift a truck off its rear wheels without help. Two, he was shyer than a typical wallflower. And three, he always typed in all-caps, correct punctuation, and never used shorthand to convey what he wanted to say. All other text messages they shared above shared those traits, but these new ones, hashed out in a flurry, initiated alarms echoing in his head. He pulled the towel off his shoulders and rose off of Sam’s bed, a bead of sweat trickling down the side of his face.

“What’s up?” Sam pursed his lips. “You good?”

“Something’s wrong,” he answered, already padding out of Sam’s room and back toward the front door, Scoritoes forgotten. He shoved the cellphone in his back pocket and forgoed his socks as he pulled on his sneakers. Out of habit, he grabbed the umbrella, readying to open it. His eyes locked with the jar, the Frozen Tear still inside. He’d have to come back for it some other time.

“Wrong?” Sam called, following behind. “Sunny okay?”

“I don’t know. I’m gonna go check.”

“Want me to come with?”

“I think I can handle it myself, but if things go south, I’ll let you know. I’ll text you.”

“Alright,” Sam replied, visibly disliking Sebastian’s tendencies to go lone-wolf. “My ringer’s on, buddy. Take care of yourself out there.”

The winds began picking up, rustling through his hair as he bolted right from Sam’s house down the stone path leading to the tall, almost impenetrable layers of forest ahead. The stones turned to mud, squishing with every heavy step of his sprint, kicking up leaves and pebbles. Without his sweatshirt, the rain felt much colder now, kissing his skin unprotected by the umbrella like needles impaling a pin cushion. Near the cliffs. Sebastian skidded to a stop, head whipping one way, then another, trying to make out any sign of Sunny or his shadow through the thicket and oncoming night.

“Sunny!”

What point would there be in calling his name? Sebastian wanted to slap himself. The guy couldn’t talk, for Yoba’s sake. Still, he tried again - “Sunny, where are you?!” - and again - “Sunny!” - as he hefted himself over fallen logs and rotting tree trunks. He checked his phone for any new message - none, because of course not - and gritted his teeth. This area was more or less Abigail’s forte, not his. He never came this far off the beaten path, enshrouded in shrubs and earthy musk.

Shit. Shit, shit, shit. He began breathing harder now, eyes wildly darting from shadow to shadow, grip tightening around the umbrella’s shaft. He needed to remain calm, because from every novel he read, those who panicked died first in the onslaught of the imperial forces or whatever. Easier said than done. He trained his ears, listening for something, anything between the ka-kaws of the ravens and the groans of the swaying trees or the simple serenades of summer’s leftover crickets.

And then he heard it - a frustrated grunt, followed by a shouted, slurred, “Get the fuck offa me, boy! M’gonna do it! There’s no point in goin’ on!”

He recognized that voice from two different places, the Stardrop Saloon and Joja Mart whenever he waited for Sam to get off work. The older guy, the one always with a beer in his hands, a five o’clock shadow always peppering his jawline. Shane, right? Had to be. Sebastian resumed running toward Shane’s laments and profanity-laden spewage of drunken nonsense. Guy had to be drunk, because, like Pam, when wasn’t he?

The trees parted into a small clearing, tufts of browned grass matted around his feet. The first beer can came into view moments later, half-crushed and a pool of foaming residual beer spilling from its tin hole. Sebastian wasn’t a huge fan of alcohol because it tasted funny; he was more partial to the fruity flavors, not that he would ever admit that to any of his friends. He had a reputation to keep up. He bent down and picked up the can, grimacing, before squinting at the rest of his surroundings.

More cans. Mostly scattered, mostly opened, mostly emptied. Near one of them, a cellphone sat in a puddle, its screen dark. He recognized the bright orange color of the case to be Sunny’s. The trademark cooler sat nearby, too. He was getting close. Cautiously, Sebastian stepped toward where a majority of the shouting came from, coming from around the bend of a few stray bushes and baby trees.

“I said, get offa me!” Shane, in all his cantankerous and slimy glory, stumbled and tottered on his uneven feet, blubbering. He pushed hard against the wall named Sunny, who hardly budged an inch at Shane’s persistence. “Whaz the point in goin’ on? Tell me! Tell me why I shouldn’t just - urf.”

Sunny appeared panicked, urging Shane to get away from the dangerous ledges leading to the dark below. Good Yoba, no wonder Sunny was having a hard time; the guy needed vocal reassurances, and Sunny couldn’t give that, no matter how much he tried. Sebastian approached, slowly, as to not startle the man having a mental breakdown.

But his foot caught on a root.

He yelped as he crashed into the mud and leaves, a harsh crunch of the umbrella snapping underneath his weight. Shit. He scrambled back onto his feet, shirt and pants stained with mud leaking off him. Gross.

“Who the fuck’re you,” Shane drawled, wobbling as he sneered. “Some - some peepin’ tom? Some evers dropper?” His unbalanced steps hobbled towards Sebastian, expression contorted between unspeakable pain and fury. “Y’think this is funny? Some kinda joke? You waltz yer flat ass into our conversation like ya own the damn place? The fuck do you know!”

Aw man. Sebastian held up his hands defensively. He never wanted Gus’s job, having to deal with patrons who didn’t understand the definition of “self-control.” Hell, any customer service position sounded like an absolute nightmare. “I don’t,” he started, but Shane’s addled brain refused to process any sane protests to his claims.

“Shaddup! Shaddup, I can’t deal with this shit right now!” He lunged for Sebastian and grabbed at his t-shirt’s collar. His breath reeked. “What’m I s’posed to do? M’too weak an’ stupid to change anythin’, an’ yer all la-dee-fuckin’-dah, sayin’ shit like, ‘you shouldn’t’ or whatever, but what do you know, ah? What do you know! It’s over for me!”

These thoughts and sentiments Sebastian understood. He toyed with death as escapism to run from his problems, because back then, as a teenager, he had nothing going for him. No dreams, no plans for the future. How could he, in such a rundown town and a shitastic high school? And sure, even now, even in his twenties, there were days. Days where he spent hours staring up at the basement’s ceiling, wondering what the hell the point was in getting up anymore. He kept hitting rock bottom, and anytime he tried to push himself up, something else came along to remind him that, hey, your existence is absolutely meaningless. You know that?

He knew. He knew that, deep down. Shane probably did, too; its truth only bubbled to the surface after a drink or six, and turned him into whoever this was. Sunny hurried over, trying to pry Shane’s fingers off Sebastian’s collar.

“What’m I s’posed to do,” Shane asked again, grip slackening. Sebastian’s collar was released as Shane teetered backward into Sunny’s chest. “I can’t no more. I can’t.”

Sunny signed something after righting Shane on his feet for a moment.

[HERE YOU.]

“He said he’s here for you,” Sebastian interpreted, hoping he understood Sunny’s intentions. He was rewarded with a nod. “But,” he added, “I’m just going to put out there that he’s not your emotional punching bag. You can’t just start shit ‘cause you can’t get your drinking problem under control. If he’s gonna be here for you, you need to be here in the first place, and that’s on you. Not him.”

A flash of worry crossed Sunny’s face, but Shane’s face smoothed out with drunken clarity. He wobbled away from Sunny and took a few steps back as he nodded.

“I,” he started, then lost his footing.

Sunny reached, because of course he would, grabbing onto Shane’s arm, yanking him away from the precipice of uncharted nooks and crannies waiting to claim him. Doing so propelled him forward, which, under normal circumstances, would spare him a few inches away from falling, and nothing would come of it.

The ground, however.

The ground, slick and covered in sopping leaves, gave way beneath Sunny’s feet. His eyes widened, locking with Sebastian’s for a fleeting moment, arms lifting in a preemptive, hopeless attempt to regain control over himself.

(“You have a craptastic sense of balance, you know that?”)

He fell.

Down,

down,

d

o

w

n

,

|

and

“Sunny,” Sebastian breathed,

a horrible

| krnch |

echoing from the gaping maw of Cindersap Forest’s jagged gullet, always hungry, always consuming discarded glass bottles and trash bags full of rotted foods and broken CDs and lost glasses and

“Sunny!”

people.

The ravens shot up into the sky, not one of them returning back to their original perches. A train whistle carried on the wind, punctuating the pregnant pause between a peculiar day and a terrible tragedy.

“Uh,” Shane said, dumbstruck, falling flat on his ass next to the broken umbrella. His eyes remained frozen on the edge, as if doing so would put Sunny back where he belonged. Sebastian blinked once, twice, before his exhaustion gave way to renewed, alarmed adrenaline. Oh Yoba. Oh, dear Yoba. He wasn’t a religious man, but - he peered over the edge to look down, and saw nothing through the shadows and the dark - he screamed silent prayers to whichever god deigned to listen.

“You,” he said, whipping his head back to a stunned Shane and jabbing a quaking finger in his direction, “don’t you fucking move from that spot. You hear me? Don’t. Move.”

Before Shane could respond, Sebastian bolted through the forest, remembering from the dredges of his thoughts about Vincent blabbing about a “staircase” leading down to a “creepy sewer” in Cindersap, implying a way down into the valleys of the cliffs. It took a bit of finding, heart pounding ra ta ta ta in his head, lungs burning, but find he did. He barrelled down them, what a long fall, rounded the corner, can anyone live that -

“Sunny!”

- and there before him was an even scarier, deeper gap between him and where Sunny must have fallen. Shit. Shit, shit - he gritted his teeth and took a few steps back. He’d have to jump it. Would he even make it? But if he didn’t get over there, then Sunny -

(“You should ask Alex for tips on working out,” echoed Sam’s residual words.)

Yeah. He’ll get on that as of tomorrow. ASAP.

Now, however. He took a sprinting start, grunting as he leapt across the gap, taking flight, and knee landing hard against an overturned stone. He hissed, hand clutching at the newly formed bruise, breathing hard. He made it. He actually made it. He shook the pain off - focus - and limp-jogged deeper into the rocky plains outstretched before him. The amount of garbage abandoned there was mind-boggling. Then again, given the lack of accessibility, he shouldn’t be all that surprised.

Among the rubbish, a lump of a man laid eerily still a little further along the way. His pace quickened, throbbing knee all but forgotten, until he stood right above Sunny.

The yellow raincoat, tattered, oozed spots of something coppery. Oh no. Sebastian knelt down, bottom lip trembling, as he grabbed Sunny by the shoulder and rolled him onto his back.

He resisted the urge to throw up.

What used to be Sunny’s right eye now gushed a babbling brook of blood. Panic seized him as he used one hand to press Sunny’s hood over the wound and his other to dig out his cellphone. Bleeding meant alive, but who knew for how long? And the size of it - he swallowed hard. The rain made it difficult to do anything on the touch screen, but he managed his way to his “Contacts” list and selected a number he never dreamed to ever call before.

“Sebastian?” Maru’s perplexion brought forth an image of her brow furrowing. “Why are you calling me, this a butt dial?”

“Maru,” he managed to get out, feeling his dry throat drag out the words as though they were made of nails and his causing his eyes to water. “Maru, I need - I need help. It’s Sunny, he - he fell off a cliff, and he’s bleeding, and I don’t know what to do. I need - what do I do?”

“Okay, slow down.” Her tone turned serious. “Where are you two?”

“Cindersap Forest, he. The cliff, he slipped,” Sebastian shivered, “and now he’s not moving - what if he dies? Maru, if he dies, what am I gonna - ?”

“Send me a picture of your coordinates on your Maps app, and I’ll be right there with Doctor Harvey and Dad. Wait, never mind, I’ve already got them tracked, don’t worry about it. Don’t move him too frequently until we can assess the full extent of the damage. If there’s a lot of bleeding, apply pressure, but not too much. We won’t take long, I promise. Breathe, Seb. Breathe, don’t start having an anxiety attack, Sunny needs you right now. Okay? I’ll be right there. Everything’s going to be fine.”

“Hurry,” he whispered between gritted teeth, “please, Maru.”

“I am. Stay put, Seb. We’re on the way. What else is family for?”

The other end of the call hung up with a quiet beep beep beep, and Sebastian, kneeling in the mud, tried to fixate on his breathing exercises. In, out. Hand steady on the fabric to keep pressure. The rest of Sunny looked wrong, too; his leg shouldn’t be bent that way. If he stared too long at it, the more wrong it seemed, so he forced himself to look away.

“You’re gonna be okay,” he whispered, uncertain if he was speaking to himself or to Sunny. “You’re gonna be fine. Maru’s gonna come, she’s gonna get help, she’s gonna make everything just fine.”

As if on cue, Sunny’s left eye cracked open, albeit barely. Sebastian stopped breathing, stare fixated on the muddled brown eye gazing steadily back at him. A yellow sleeve lifted, split knuckles decorating his hand, and he began to sign.

“Sunny, don’t. You’re hurt,” Sebastian started, but Sunny ignored him.

[S. H. A. N. E. GOOD?]

Of course. Sebastian bit his lower lip to stop it from quivering. Of course that’s what he would ask first. He breathed hard through his nose, trying to keep himself calm. “He’s - he’s fine. He’s drunk and probably traumatized, but he’s fine. Put your arm down, you’re not supposed to move right now. You’re gonna be fine. It only looks bad, but you’re gonna be okay.”

He had to be. He had to be. Sebastian needed to believe this, if nothing else.

Sunny’s mouth parted and contorted into a grimace. The pain must be catching up to him. Still, he reached up with his good arm, palm pressing against Sebastian’s cheek - as if to reassure him, as if Sebastian were the one in immeasurable pain - before it dropped back down onto the muddy earth cradling his broken body.

“Sunny?” Sebastian whispered, watching his eye flutter shut. “Sunny. Sunny, stay with me. You can’t - you can’t go too, you said you’d never - Sunny, please - ”

But naught fell from Sunny’s stilled lips.

Only the

(echoing, the deafening, the terrifying, the lonely)

sounds of silence.

Chapter Text

(You sit on the swing overlooking the hill, a sea of dandelions swaying in the spring breeze while lining an unmarked path leading back to the white speck known as your house in the distance. The old oak groans in supporting your weight, the branch bending and creaking with each pendulum motion. Back, forth, back, forth. Your sandals fly high into the air, the makeshift birds without wings doomed to crash land into the grass. You, too, will follow suit: letting go of the fraying rope, your body hurtles up into the air, limbs sprawled outward, the rush of air between your toes and fingertips, and in that moment you understand what it means to be alive.

You too crash into the ground, knees first, tumbling down the hill a few feet before coming to a complete stop. Your heart pound pound pounds into your ears as you look over the new green patches marring your palms. It hurts, but only a little. You rise to your feet, exhilarated and ready to do it all over again, but -

there she is.

There she is, sitting in your spot, book peeled open, legs crossed. She tucks a strand of loose black hair behind her ear, then turns a page. You stare at her, puzzled - you thought she was back home with Momma and Mommy. She doesn’t like to come outside as much anymore, so it’s strange to see her in your unofficial territory. If you listen close enough, you hear the whispers, the chortles, the tee-hees behind her back, even when no one else is there. They follow her regardless, shades of school never quite leaving her be.

She lifts her head and smiles.

“‘Lo, Sunny.”

The book is worn, probably one of her favorites. You don’t particularly enjoy reading too much; it’s dreadfully boring, and why read when you can watch TV instead? But Poppy never liked TV. Too loud, she says.

She rises from the swing and closes the book, approaching you with those big, oafish eyes of hers. It’s too warm to be wearing sweatshirts, but Poppy wears them anyways to hide herself. Everyone calls her fat. You don’t see why being fat is a problem. Mommy makes great food. Who wouldn’t want to get fat off of that? They just don’t understand - if they lived in your household for three weeks, of course they’d be as big, if not bigger, than Poppy.

Besides, she needs all that extra food to compensate for her gift. She can see things other people, like you, cannot. Little friends shaped like apples, big friends shaped like monsters - she spins stories so grand that even if they aren’t real, you don’t care. If anyone bothered to get to know her, they’d know how cool Poppy is.

She squats in front of you, looking over the scabs decorating your knee from the ground’s kisses, then purses her lips. She cups your cheeks, brow furrowing in concern.

“Momma said not to jump off like that,” she chastises in that nasally big sister tone she has. It’s annoying, but she comes from a good place, and deep down, you know this well. “You could break your ankles. How’re you gonna play frisbee on Saturday at Chester’s party if you break ‘em?”

You shrug out of her grasp, wrinkling your nose in silent defiance. She sighs, her bangs fluttering up a little to reveal the spreading acne across her broad forehead. The bad word comes to mind: zitty-bitchy, or whatever Poppy’s so-called “friends” giggle about behind her back.

(“It’s fine,” Poppy says when you inform her, but her classic “sad” tell of biting her bottom lip exposes the thinly-veiled pain, “it’s just, you know. Friend jokes. A little ribbing here and there never hurts no one. They ain’t actually mean it. Want some of my gumdrops?”)

(It’s cold.)

You and Poppy don’t look alike because you’re from different moms. She’s pale, you’re dark. She’s large, you’re small. Her nose is crooked, and yours is bulbous. Her teeth poke out from behind her lips, and yours will never need braces. When you asked Mommy once if one day, you’re going to look like Poppy, she broke the illusion that the two of you shared any blood. You wanted to look like her, just a little bit, if only to understand. If only to really, really know what she feels whenever she sees you with friends that she pretends to have. You know the looks. You feel the burn of her eyes burrow into your back, how everyone likes you, how girls leave you chocolates on your desk on St Lovemas day, how you’re popular. At least, that’s what everyone says. You’re not old enough to understand the full depths of a school’s pecking order, but you stand high above the abyss she’s spiraling into.

(It’s cold.)

You shiver, the wind picking up and leaving goosebumps along your skin in its wake. Poppy blinks, and shirks off her sweatshirt before tugging it onto you. You swim in it, the fabric stretching almost down to your knobby knees.

“I think s’gonna rain,” she informs, gaze locking with the sky. Then she glances to her left, and nods. “The rainies are dancing, so yeah, soon. Let’s go home. What? You wanna swing some more? But Momma will ground you if you get soaked and stuff, then you can’t go to Chester’s party. S’okay, we can come back when the rain’s all done, promise.” She wraps her pudgy fingers around the sweatshirt’s sleeve, pulling you along. “When’ve I ever broken a promise?”

Never.

(It’s so, so cold.)

Momma and Mommy are in the kitchen when you return home, the smell of lemon meringue pie enticing your taste buds. You know you can’t have it ‘til tomorrow because it’s for Chester’s stupid party, but you want. Stealing a little can’t hurt, right? You peel off your sneakers and pad into the kitchen, eager eyes peering at the fluffy topping and the tiny specks of yellow peeking back at you from underneath.

“Ah-ah-ah,” Momma says, catching onto your deviousness, “not yet, Sunny. But,” she adds, dousing your swelling disappointment with a single syllable, “if you ask your sister nicely, she might have a surprise for you. Right, Poppy?”

At that, Poppy beams with a new pride as she waddles over to the refrigerator, almost slipping across the tiled floor in her excitement. She yanks the sucker open, the condiments shuddering from the force, and she pulls out a - you stare in disbelief - a second pie! It doesn’t look as fancy or well-made as Mommy’s, but it smells just as good.

“I made it for you,” she says, smiling ear-to-ear.

Under your Mommy’s breath, she mutters, well, sorta made it, and Momma kicks her shin to silence her. Still, you can see all of Poppy’s sloppy dexterity throughout, and your eyes water. You want to ask why, but Poppy never has a “why.” She does nice things ‘cause she’s the nicest person you know. She knows lemon meringue is your favorite, and probably also knows how much you wanted a whole pie to yourself instead of giving it to Chester. She gives presents to the people who hate her, who ignore her, and you’re the only one who ever thanks her. It stings, how much you want all the idiots at school to just look past her “ugliness” and to see how she truly is.

You share a piece with everyone, after asking Momma to cut it for you ‘cause you’re not allowed to handle knives yet.

Outside, it begins to rain, and Poppy glances out the window with a knowing smile.

(It’s cold.)

You blink, and the pie is gone, the plate, the fork. They’re replaced with a keyboard, a dimmed brightness monitor, a flurry of sticky notes covering nearly every inch of your cubicle, and a storm raging outside the Joja Corporation’s Zuzu City main office. A few times the power’s already flickered, but you still haven’t gone home yet like everyone else. This project requires all your attention - it’s your key to promotion - and the meeting is tomorrow.

Your phone vibrates. It’s a text message from the only person who ever messages you, because you do not have any friends. You don’t have time for that - well, don’t make any time for that. Why bother? You’ve seen the true depths of humanity. You know how people are: calculating, manipulative, sharing smiles and secrets, assessing you for what you can do for them, bleeding you dry then accusing you of never doing enough, leaving you behind for the shiny new venture they call a friendship. No one cares. No one has the capacity to care, not in a world that long-since discarded the value of what it means to be alive.

At this point, humanity had been extinct, and the empty husks roaming Zuzu City’s sidewalks, latching onto their phones and ignoring the mounting catastrophes of war in the backdrop in favor of the newest hip bullshit are just walking Gs to be harvested from. And you, you’re no better than the rest of them, equally culpable, equally comprised of money to be squeezed from your massive bones and shared between the profiteers having sold their souls to Yoba’s antithesis. You’re willing to bleed out if it gives you purpose. Right now, you haven’t any, a day-to-day empty existence.

The universe birthed an ocean of stars, comprised of fintismal atoms, and from meteor dust and microbes you have evolved into a miracle of life wasted on a nine to five sitting next to a thirty-year-old phone an glaring at a computer needing another godforsaken update that’ll take two million hours to finish.

This is who you will be for the next forty some-odd years until retirement or death takes you: Sunny Gainsborough.

When did it become like this? When did you become such an insufferable introspective prick? You think in circles, spiraling down a bathroom sink drain, and the thoughts get stuck in the collection of years’ old toothpaste lining the pipes. Life wore you down to a stub of a man. Corporate Ferngill wishes to whittle you down even more.

Right. Your phone. You pick it up, staring at the green text bubble.

Poppy: Can we talk?

It’s after classes, judging by the clock. Finals week is coming up, if you remember correctly, but the passage of time is tricky when you stop giving a damn. Did they already happen? She’s studying a myriad of things, all to become a better farmer as she intends to inherit Grandpa’s farm. The will left it to her, and you were more than fine with that because farming holds zero interest to you. Back then - you snort - you wanted to become a musician. That violin sits in the closet now in some unmarked cardboard box.

You glance at your project and sigh. Why does she always want to talk when you’re in the middle of something? Maybe she’s going to ask how you are and other annoying big-sister questions. All she does is nag, and she says it’s because she cares about you, but for fuck’s sake, you’re literally twenty-one now, and you’ve got a job that pays better than most. You can handle this. You don’t need one of her you should do something you love lectures, even if they come from a good place.

She cares. She does. She’s the only one in the world who does, and -

(It’s cold.)

- it pisses you off.

Me: Busy, sorry. Can we talk later?

You crack your knuckles and stare at the screen, the slideshow for the presentation to the next board meeting blurring together. Lightning flashes, and the power finally kicks it about twenty minutes later, the storm too strong to support your unhealthy decisions. You groan, thanking Yoba for the invention of cloud saves, and decide to call it a night.

You check your phone, and something wrong greets you in the textbox.

>Read at 19:07.

She left you on read? Poppy? Your sister, who always has something to say, always having a need to end the conversation on her terms? You wander toward the large window, where Zuzu City’s darkened cityscape is illuminated by lightning and blinking street lights. Disregarding better judgment, the wrongness prompts you to hash out another message, and you await the slew of cheerful nonsense she’s always willing to dish out.

Me: Free now.

You wait two, three, five, ten minutes.

Nothing.

(It’s cold.)

Me: Poppy?

Despite common sense, you press the never-used “Call” button, and listen to it go straight to voicemail.

Hiya, you’ve reached Poppy Gainsborough! Sorry for not being available for your call, I’m probably feeding chickens or something, haha! Leave me a message after the beep, and remember, have a fantabulous day!

You hang up. Try again, with some foolish expectation of a different result. The same chipper voice, brimming with a faked confidence honed over years of torment from school, greets you. She sounds so happy in her electronic timeloop prison. It took so long for her to be happy. You remember hearing the sniffles behind her bedroom door when you tip-toed by to use the restroom. More often than not, tears replaced silence in those days, but whenever you asked her directly, she always laughed and said, “I’m okay, promise! Just allergies.” Then she diverted the topic to about you, how are you doing.

Well. She doesn’t live far, and it’s not like you can keep working in a black-out, so you gather your belongings, and -

(Don’t.)

you head out of the building, flagging a taxi bound for the other side of town, close to the community college.

(Don’t go.)

It takes you to the

(Don’t go.)

apartment complex, standing at attention for your impromptu arrival,

(I don’t want to see)

and you pay your fare, thanking the driver in that awkward fumbling exchange you always have whenever you need to converse with someone,

(I don’t want to see)

and you walk up those ivy-lined steps, bending beneath your weight,

(Stop)

and you knock, her inattentive ditz of a roommate letting you in and trying to

(STOP)

strike a conversation because she thinks you’re hot or whatever, she’s so into you it’s awful, never knows boundaries, always calling you honey or sugar plum or some other unbearable pet name, and she reeks of cigarettes, are you here for Poppy, she’s upstairs studying, did you hear though that her boyfriend cheated on her, yeah, she was like, super broken up about it, and like, you know,

(SHUT UP)

it was her first ever, which like, does that surprise you? Like, you agree, right? Even as her brother, you know she’s not a looker. Don’t gimme that look, she says it all the time! Poor thing, she - oh, you leaving already? Tell her I said hi! … … … what? Call the police? But like, why?

Why.

It’s a question you cannot answer, but the bedroom door swings open, and in the stray flash of lightning, you are greeted with the death of the last human being who mattered to you.)

***

(The truth sits with you in the bleakest three years of your existence.

You allowed Poppy to die to instead make a company you hated happy. Couldn’t spare a single minute with cash to be made. When she needed you most, what did you do but ignore her.

Can we talk later. Someone like you doesn’t deserve a voice.

So you tear it out, glass and tacks and whatever else you can find, down the hatch and into a roiling stomach that regurgitates all the pain you’ve swallowed, becoming watered down in the toilet bowl now taking on a yellowish-red hue staining the porcelain.)

***

(Why are you still breathing?)

***

(I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry. Please don’t be cold anymore.)

(The sun rises and the sun sets. The stars come, looking upon the gifts they sprinkled onto rocks hurtling at stupid speeds throughout the sea of space. They see you, and they twinkle. The flowers are wilting with the coming winter.)

***

(You clear out Poppy’s room, because no one else can, and it’s months overdue. Momma and Mommy are long gone, and Poppy’s with them now. You’re the last. You find her stuffed animals, her trinkets, her notes, her journals.

I hope Sunny is okay, she writes, I want him to be happy. I want him to find his dream and be happy. I hope he can. I know he can.

You haven’t any dreams. None tangible. None achievable.

You stare at the journal, then flip to the calendar taped to the back cover. On it, penned in birthdays fill the square, as well as other important dates. Yours. Your parents. “Friends.” Her “love of her life.” The bastard refuses to show his face around these parts. Beside the dates, she has little present ideas scribbled in beside them. She didn’t have a lot of money, but she still went out of her way to - to -

You slam the journal onto her desk and let out an inhuman grunt of something. Sadness, probably. You feel sad. This wasn’t the way it was supposed to go. Poppy needed to - she had to - she had to be alive, to do - she had so many - why? Of the two of you, the one who should abandon the earth should be you, not her. Never her.)

***

(You quit Joja.)

***

(What day is it? When did your hair get so long?)

***

(Your ex checks in on you. He says something, but it washes over you, and you sleep with him. You don’t feel a damn thing, not even his lips on your neck. He leaves the next morning, writing a note along the lines of, Call me. His number is attached. You throw it in the recycle bin, hoping that in its next life, that paper will serve a better purpose.)

***

(A package sits in front of your doorstep. You didn’t order anything. You pick it up, and take it inside. It’s a vinyl of a musician you adored when you were a teenager, they released a new album or something. Did you preorder this and forget? A little note is attached, and your heart leaps up into your throat:

Surprise! Happy birthday, Sunny-Bunny. Love, Poppy.)

***

(You decide to steal a dream that isn’t yours. It’s the least you can do. You crack open the notes she took. You read them. Memorize them. You buy a calendar, and write down important dates. You learn of animal husbandry, different fertilizers, planting seasons, and cram the gaping emptiness in your heart with everything she was. Everything you aren’t.)

***

(You keep a journal. The first entry reads, “Why am I trying so hard?”)

***

(The second entry reads, “What’s the point?”)

***

(The third is blank. Mostly. It consists of one word: “Okay.” The rest of the journal is abandoned thereafter, filled instead with spirals and bus tickets to a town you barely remember from your youth.)

***

(Spring comes, and with it, your arrival. The farm’s in varying states of disrepair; Poppy never had a chance to come by to clean it up. She always put if off, always second-guessed her abilities, or so she wrote. Your muteness works to your advantage in keeping folks away. For almost an entire month, you avoid the population of Pelican Town, focusing on your due diligence to Poppy’s dream. You plant flowers and crops. You water them. You sleep in a bed too small for you. A woman gives you a cat one day, and the cat, being a pest, is named Rascal. You end up loving and doting upon him. Aside from him, your days are isolated, and you only bother to sneak into town to purchase more seeds.

You don’t want to care about anyone ever again.)

***

(Not that anyone could care about you in the first place after what you’ve done.)

***

(New goal, Poppy wrote upon entering college, I’m gonna make everyone I meet smile. It’ll be tough, but I don’t want to wallow in despair anymore. I’m gonna meet the world head-on with everything I am! Yeah! You got this, Popstar! You’re the coolest! You’re gonna be the best role-model ever! Sunshine’s gonna brag about me to all his friends, and I can make him more delicious pies, and life’ll be roses and daffodils! Yeah! I’m gonna turn a new leaf!

Just watch me, world! I’ll be the best friend you never knew you needed! This time, for sure, no matter how I look!

It’s this passage that changes everything.)

***

(You approach the dingy mirror in the back of the room, and push up your lips to a smile. It feels foreign. It doesn’t look right. You repeat this until the muscle memory steadily becomes stronger. Smile.

Smile, for Poppy. Smile for where she can’t. Be the smile she needed most.)

***

(The first person you meet properly is Evelyn. She smiles at you when you approach, and you offer her a plucked daffodil. She’s surprised, but takes it anyways.

And you feel something. Something you haven’t felt since you gave up on happiness once you hit adulthood. The ice around your heart thaws.

You almost cry.

For Poppy, you smile shyly, awkwardly, in return.)

***

(It’s a big world outside.

You walk into Stardrop Saloon for the first time, introductions long overdue, and it’s here you meet him.

Him.

The man begging you now to not leave him behind. Would he say the same thing if he knew what you did? If he knew how you betrayed your sister? If he knew you’re not a good person like he seems to think you are? You deserve worse, frankly. You know it deep down. You try to make up for it by listening to everyone whenever you can, always wanting to be there for people because you never know when it’s the last time you can try. You keep an eye out for everyone, heavily invested in their lives when three years ago the you of then would scoff and ask why bother. You memorize their favorite foods and gifts and hope it’s enough to keep their sadness at bay a little longer. If you lose someone else - these husks, no, humans you care about despite all logic telling you that’s a terrible idea - it will be on you. You can’t let that happen. Shane is safe. Shane is safe, and all is well, and your whole body hurts.

And it’s so, so cold.)

Chapter Text

“Don’t forget your thermos,” Demetrius chided. He flipped an egg over, the olive oil bubbling and popping in a desperate attempt to chase away the awkward gaps of silence between them. “It’s on the counter with your keys. Are you sure you don’t need any extra parts, tools?”

“Nn.” Sebastian clipped the keys to his belt with the bright yellow carabiner, ignoring the cute little plastic sunflower doohickey dangling beside the greenhouse key. His bag jostled with numerous nuts and bolts, all prepared to fix that stupid space heater in the sheeps’ stable. He managed to construct a temporary solution, albeit rickety and consuming too much power than need be, in order to keep all of Sunny’s fluffy friends warm in the cold season that claimed the valley year after year. “Maru already up?”

“She’s still in the shower and said she will meet you two at the farm.”

He unscrewed the thermos’s cap and sniffed the coffee. A hint of vanilla intermingled with the light roast, already perking his mood from downright incorrigible to mildly functional. It didn’t taste half-bad, either. “Thanks,” he forced out, maintaining steady eye contact with the steam billowing out of the thermos’s top, “for the coffee.”

“Always. I’ve honed my bean grinding skills and flavor profiles over the years, and I am glad you’ve come around to appreciate them.”

“Mom’s the one who buys the coffee, not you. And you literally just use the mini grinder for bean grinding.”

“Shh. Don’t ruin this for me.” Despite himself, Demetrius cracked a grin while sprinkling ample salt and pepper onto his eggs. “You sure I can’t make you anything for breakfast before you head off?”

“Abby said she’s bringing food over to Sunny’s. I’m good.”

“Alrighty. Be safe out there. Try not to blow up any sheep in your quest to save the mighty stable kingdom from the furnace menace, lest you lose out on your precious experience bars. Points? Bars, right?”

“Points,” Sebastian clarified, desperately wanting out of this conversation as soon as humanly possible. Good Yoba. Sure, Demetrius was trying, but he could afford to be a little less embarrassing about it. Still, he seemed proud of himself, eyes twinkling with some weirdo fatherly enjoyment upon being bestowed some tidbits of son-knowledge. Eugh. “Later. Don’t,” he added, rubbing the back of his neck, “let the oil splash on you or whatever. Shit burns.”

Demetrius waved his spatula with a tsk. “Language, young man.”

“Yeah, okay. Stuff burns. Happy? Bye.”

He gave a half-hearted wave on his way outside, where mounds of snow and a cold wind greeted him. His boots crunched the mud and slush composing his usual path to town. The sun still hadn’t rose, plunging his familiar surroundings into a slowly lightening darkness. He squinted as he shuffled down the road, kicking up swaths of piled-up snow in his way, tools and keys jingling along with him. At stupid-o’-clock in the morning, his body metamorphised into a slug, oozing along to a responsibility he signed himself up for against all better judgment.

Still. It was the least he could do. After - after everything.

He clicked his tongue and shivered, the cold seeping into his bones.

The farm came into view after elongated seconds expanded into what felt like hours. Abigail waved from her guard in front of Sunny’s house, knees knocking together from over-exposure to the elements. Apparently her big poofy coat and rainbow scarf did little against the below-freezing temperatures. He quirked an eyebrow and stepped onto the porch.

“Morning.”

“About time,” she groused. “What took you so long?”

“Waiting for coffee.” He pursed his lips. “You’ve got your spare set of keys, don’t you? Why’d you wait for me outside?”

“I dropped them,” she complained, watching him fidget with the door and allowing them inside. “They skidded right across the stupid pond and found the one spot that didn’t freeze yet. Sank faster than my motivation. But I brought waffles this time,” she held up her insulated cooker, “and syrup. Nabbed it clean from the pantry. M’sure Dad won’t mind. Maru’s not with you? Hewwo Wascal! Hi! Did you miss us? Aw, widdle baby, I missed you! Who’s the goodest widdle baby!”

Sebastian snorted at her instantaneous jumps in topics. Even this early in the day, Abigail never ceased to amaze him with how active her brain was. “Maru’s running behind. Lemme feed your ‘pwecious widdle baby’ and then we can divide up today’s work - but remember, I’ve gotta fix that damn heater, so that takes priority. What kind of waffles?”

“Fresh from the freezer and blueberry-flavored. Ran out of the chocolate ones, sorry. You know how precious those are in this economy.” He didn’t, but he humored her with a nod nonetheless. “If you take care of his sheep, then I’ll make sure the greenhouse is good to go with watering and fertilizing and stuff. Doesn’t completing menial tasks make you feel like your diligence stats go up?”

He rolled his eyes. “And you call me addicted to video games.”

“Hey. Hey. I’ll have you know, I’m not the one who marathoned the latest expansion for Conclusion Chronicles XIV in the span of thirty-six hours unlike someone we both know. Sam and I had to drag you out to get you some sustenance, for which you owe the rest of your life to us, by the way. Butter?”

Rascal purred in anticipation of Sebastian’s impending servitude in opening a fresh can of wet cat food and delivering it on a shiny, gold-lined bowl with floral patterns along the sides. Compared to the plainness in the rest of Sunny’s dishes, Rascal was absolutely spoiled rotten. Considering how all the sheep had their own hand-knitted sweaters made in preparation for winter and how clean their stables were, it shouldn’t surprise him. Sunny just - he cared. Maybe too much. Maybe - “Sure,” he answered belatedly, fingers resting atop Rascal’s head. “And you’re right, I only clocked in thirty-six to your seventy-two.”

“Hush your slander, or else I’ll burn your waffles.”

He needed to stop thinking so much. Once upon a time, he loathed the sound of other voices prattling at him, be it a stranger’s or a friend’s. But now, the one voice he hated hearing more than anyone was the one locked within his head.

You could’ve stopped it, it whispered. If you just moved a little faster -

“Shut up,” he muttered.

“Sorry?” Abigail called from the kitchen as she grabbed two plates from the cupboard. “I wasn’t paying attention, did you say something?”

“Just talking to the cat.” Rascal murbled at his obvious lie, but luckily, Abigail didn’t speak Nyanese. He gave Rascal another reassuring pat before rising from his squat. “Smells good. Sure they’re frozen?”

“Like you’ve ever been a guy who cared about fresh or frozen,” she replied, setting a plate down in front of one of the chairs. Extra syrup, just as he liked it. He sat down and prodded the steaming waffle with his fork. “Speaking of fresh, did you see your sister’s outfit yesterday? She looks dope in purple. Super cute. And smart. Say,” she took the opposite chair and smirked, “she’s not seeing anyone, is she?”

Sebastian almost choked on his own spit. “What?”

“You know, dating-wise?”

“I know what you - you like girls?”

“Is that really so surprising? You’re not the only one who had a crush on Holly, you know. Wait, is this seriously making you shook right now? You’re not kidding?” She squinted at him. “Seb, I like both dudes and ladies. Really? How did you not pick up on that? Anyways, you didn’t answer my question, is she sin - ?”

“How am I supposed to know, I don’t invade my sister’s privacy and I have literally zero interest in her love life, what the hell? Maru? Of all the - ”

“Yes?”

In the doorway stood the sister-in-question, glasses half-fogged and toting a mountaineering backpack ready to burst at the seams. She tilted her head with an inquisitive smile, the bits of hair not dried by her hair dryer stiffened into icicles from her trek. “I heard my name,” she elaborated, closing the door behind her and scuffing her boots on the welcome mat. “Are we already on today’s agenda planning phases? Ooh, is there a spare waffle for me, by any chance?”

Abigail batted her doe-eyes before letting her smile soften a pinch. Double eugh. The thought of Maru and Abigail dating - hell, even the concept of courting - made him lose his appetite. Seriously, why? Of all the girls in town, it had to be his sister?

Sister? Not-sister.

When did that change? He took a miffed bite of his waffle, oversaturated with blueberry. Then again, since the incident, many things changed. Too many. His entire world turned on its head, an underbelly of an undesired reality asserting its newfound dominance. He felt himself a foreigner in once familiar territory.

“There sure are. Have as many as you’d like.”

“Thanks. Seb, you okay? You look like you’re going to be sick.”

“Peachy fucking keen,” he mumbled, pointedly jabbing his fork into his waffle and shooting daggers for a glare in Abigail’s direction. She winked discreetly before helping Maru get her helping of the utmost nutritional breakfast anyone in the valley ever saw.

He wondered if Sunny liked waffles.

Stop thinking about him. Stop thinking about it.

As if on cue, Maru perked up: “Oh, right! Seb, I’ve received news from Dr. Harvey today. He got notified that Sunny’s going to return to Stardew tomorrow from the hospital. The physical therapy was a success with only some permanent repercussions. He wanted to let us know as soon as he found out, so - ”

Sebastian’s fork clattered against the wooden tabletop, then tipped over the edge, plummeting to the floor in a dramatic fashion. It skidded toward Rascal’s water dish, who now scampered off to hide underneath the couch to better observe the new intruder. His mouth hung open, hand stiff close to his cheek, eyes widening.

“He’s,” he managed to get out, “coming back?”

“Yeah? Thought you’d be over the moon, Seb.” Maru fiddled with her glasses, expression uncertain. “But you look like death warmed over.”

He didn’t want to face it. He didn’t want to face Sunny. If he did, then he would have to acknowledge a truth he long ago arrived to:

He’s going to hate me for not doing anything to stop it.

“It’s - just surprised. That’s all. I’m gonna,” he got up from his chair and fumbled to pick up the fork a few times, “get working on the heater. Yeah. If you need me, you’ll know where to find me.”

He dumped his dishes into the sink before hurrying back outside, heart pound-pounding in his ears, jitters running miniature earthquakes through limbs. He forced himself to take in a deep breath, filling his lungs with arctic air to numb the adrenaline coursing through his veins, before exhaling deliberately, slowly. He kept his mind a purposeful blank as he made his way to the sheeps’ abode, tools jostling in his bag at the prospect of a more hands-on distraction.

By the time he got there - by the time he found himself knee-deep in the baa-aa-aas of Sunny’s sheep - the memories broke through the haphazard damn and flooded and drowned out all other functions.

(Sunny’s hand didn’t belong in the mud. Nor did it deserve to feel so frigid, so Sebastian clung to it, keeping it warm the best he could in the rain and the wind. The blood didn’t stop. It didn’t stop, wouldn’t stop, because reality didn’t have Cure II to mend and stitch the severed sinews seeping red cells into dirt and roots and leaves and yellow. Yellow, blinding, bright, keeping his line of sight fixated as it took on a grim shade of orange over time.

Someone shouted his name. Sebastian. Sebastian, where are you? He’s there, technically speaking, but he couldn’t utter a sound. He lifted his head to look for the source, and there stood Dad, smiling, and puddles began to mesh together, and the white caps began to form, and the waves crashed over him, and he couldn’t breathe again, his vision swimming where his arms and legs could not -

“He’s here,” said the child, pointing. “He’s come home. See? I told you so.”

You can’t have him. You can’t have him too, damn you. Leave us alone -

“A mermaid’s invitation should never be rebuked,” Dad said, hair comprised of seaweed and skin coated in barnacles.

Leave us alone -

“It should always be accepted, as it’s a gift,” Dad said, pockets of hollowed flesh exposing pearls for teeth while algae for a beard covered the rest.

“Don’t,” Sebastian breathed, teeth clattering together, “don’t give me that shit, you asshole, you’re not my father anymore - ”

“You should not speak for our special guest,” “Dad” said, driftwood for fingers unfurling and extending toward Sunny, “simply because he hasn’t a voice, Sebby.”

“Don’t call me that - don’t - ”

“You must know by now,” “Dad” said, blinking once, stubborn snails suckling to his eye sockets, “that for every ounce of happiness you find, there’s a liter of sadness that comes with it. That’s always been your lot in life, hasn’t it? Hasn’t it? Hasn’t it? Isn’t it? Always, and ever, and immutable, as the skies blue and the grass green. You were never meant to be happy. Don’t you see? Don’t you see, Sebby? Look at the reality in front of you. Look.

L O O K!”

A hand grasped his shoulder and squeezed, and he screamed, screamed until his throat grew raw, until it faded into an incomprehensible mesh of sobs and snot into his little sister’s shoulder, nails dragging into the back of her soaked sweater.)

“Seb.”

He whipped his head over his shoulder, breathing coming in sharp, jagged pants, the memory dissipating as swiftly as it came. Maru folded her arms across her chest, brow knitting together as she bit her bottom lip. She stepped toward him, as cautious as one would a loitering deer, and held up both hands. “It’s just me,” she said, voice steady and clear. “I wanted to check on you because I thought maybe…” She trailed off, and a sympathetic smile crossed her lips. “And I was right, wasn’t I? You’re still having - you know.”

“Quit acting like you know me,” he all but spat, turning his back on her and heading toward the Yoba-forsaken heater that refused to accept any aid to work properly. He’d get it this time, come hell or high wat - er. He shook his head.

“I do know you,” she retorted, “whether you like it or not. I’m your sister. I get it, though.” She leaned against the wall, eying the sheep congregating around their feeders. “You don’t see me as family, so why would you think I viewed you as my brother? Fun fact: I do. I care about you, a lot, even if you don’t care about me.”

“Don’t put words in my mouth.”

“I don’t have to ‘cause you used to say it all the time.”

Ouch. He buried a wince by proceeding to unscrew the heater’s hatch. He didn’t want to see the look on her face right then.

“Sorry,” she sighed. “That’s not how I wanted to start this. I’m really worried about you, you know? I’m worried that you won’t get help. You had an incredibly traumatic experience, and it’s haunting you.” She paused, as if delegating her next selection of words carefully. “Shane’s been seeing a good therapist in Zuzu City. Maybe - this is just a suggestion - but maybe you should consider looking into one, too.”

“What, so they can throw me in the loony bin after I tell them what the hell’s going on in my head? No thanks.”

“Have you ever been to therapy before? They won’t put you into a hospital unless you’re incredibly incapacitated by your mental health. And, yes, while you have days where you’re coasting to function, you still have a basic grasp on reality. I want you to be happy, Seb. You know that? You deserve it, just like everyone else, and I’m scared that you’re going to keep hiding how you really feel.”

“And how do I really feel, oh mighty expert.” He tossed aside the hatch and glared at the heater’s innerworkings. “Since you know me oh-so-well.”

A slight tension eased into her voice. “I know enough to know you’re deflecting the joy I expected you to feel at Sunny’s return just to keep yourself safe from further pain. The moment you think you’re going to feel happy, you hide. You bury yourself beneath some angsty facade of ‘whatever’ as some protection from losing it and getting hurt. You do it by working, or by just simply refusing to acknowledge it. Want to know how I know that, Seb?”

“Do I care?”

“I do it too,” she answered, ignoring his jab.

“Bull.”

“I do it too, and yeah, it’s a little different, but we’re more similar than you think.”

“What do you know?” He rose and turned toward her, more venom ready to fly from his tongue, but the bite in his words strangled itself when he saw just how vacant and understanding she appeared. He stared and waited for her to elaborate.

“Sometimes, you just have incorrect thoughts. You know? Like if you’re imperfect at what you do, you don’t deserve love or care from those around you. So to stop yourself from thinking like that, you brainstorm new projects and ideas to chase instead of your own self-doubts. So that for a minute, you deserve joy despite how you think you don’t for a good portion of your life. But once that ends, you’re just left to pick up the pieces of your own shattered view of yourself. And it’s never pretty. It’s miserable. It sucks.”

He didn’t get it. From his perspective, Maru lived the almost perfect life: great grades, incredible career prospects, ingenious, and beloved by her parents. Then again, he never quite paid attention to her - well, not in-depth at any rate. The pressure she faced, the burden she carried - yes, they didn’t quite match the trauma he harbored, but she tackled it all the same as he did: with work.

And given how often she engaged in projects? Well.

“The thing is, I went and got some help with my destructive thoughts, so I can tackle them better. I can allow myself to have fun, for example. I don’t have to always be productive at all times of the day.” Maru clasped her hands behind her back. “And I want you to be able to, like, let go. You know? Of your reservations. You shouldn’t have to be afraid of reliving that day all the time. Those days.”

He remained still. The sheep began huddling towards the only working heater, baa-ing their disdain at the lack of another one. The wind outside picked up, howling for a few seconds and scattering loose snow in a swirl of noise, before matching Sebastian’s stillness. He swallowed hard.

“Just think about it,” she added, “alright? I’m gonna go make Sunny those automated sprinklers back in his house. Should help him with watering instead of having to do it by hand, since he’s got a limp and all now. Let me know when you want lunch, and I’ll whip something up.”

“Wait,” he said, and she paused. “Maru, wait. Look, it’s not that I don’t care about you, it’s just - I don’t - I,” he grimaced, “I don’t know how. I mean, that’s not right either, but I’m just - ugh. What if something happens to you, too? Like. It feels like whenever I care about someone, something bad happens, and it’s - it’s my fault somehow. Like I attract bad karma or whatever, and I infect everyone I give six shits about. And then it’s just,” his gaze lowered to the floor, “me again, alone. All over again.”

Always, and ever, and immutable.

He wiped his face with his sleeve.

“I want to,” he whispered. “And I don’t want to at the same time.”

“So you choose to abandon us - rather, the prospect of being close to all of us - to prevent us from abandoning you,” she concluded, pushing up her glasses. “Is that it?” When he didn’t answer, Maru leaned against the door frame, arms folded across her chest. “Seb. Do you really think yourself as born under some ill-fated star? Or did you create one yourself, then shoot it up into the universe as a means to justify your avoidance behaviour?” Another stretch of silence, and she continued: “Remember what you told Shane that day?”

He didn’t even remember Shane being there, frankly. It was some droplet in a scene that drowned him, rip current pulling him under the memory of Sunny’s fall. He remembered the smell, though; the rain, the leaves, the dribbling booze, the copper. Somewhere he connected the booze to Shane’s miserable existence, the way he slurred his words together, haphazard sentences of self-pity and other some-such crap.

“You told him to not use Sunny as his emotional punching bag,” she elaborated when he didn’t produce an answer. “He told us this as the reason why he was looking for help with his problems. Seb, I hate to say it, but consider looking into a mirror when saying that advice. Not just for Sunny’s sake, or mine, or your friends - but for yourself. Because believe it or not, we think you’re worth it. The time, the energy, the love we give to you. That’s why we’re still here. That’s why we haven’t gone anywhere.” She paused, and smiled. “You know this deep down, right?”

Yes.

Yes, he did know this deep down. Sebastian could hate it as much as he want, but nothing could upend something so concrete with falsehoods he conjured up like a wizard in some isolated tower aiming to destroy the planet. “Can you stop being smart all the time,” he groused, but lacked all the bite of his usual bitterness. Hard to be bitter in the face of someone who genuinely cared.

“No can do. It’s one of my sole-defining character traits.” She smirked. “That and pestering you, obviously.”

That was something they could both agree on, but he chose not to comment on that. “I’ll think about it.” He peered into the heater’s innerworkings to garner some sort of diagnostic. He might have to tear out all the components and rebuild them. He sniffed. “What you suggested, I mean. No promises.”

“We take those,” Maru said, pleased at his attempts to meet her halfway. “If you need any resources, you know where to find me. Good luck with the heater.”

“Yeah,” he replied, half-listening. “Maru?”

“That’s my name.”

“Just,” he struggled to pull the right words out of his ass, then decided against it, already feeling too vulnerable. Little steps. “You too. Good luck with the sprinklers.”

With that, she nodded and waved, leaving him alone with the sheep and a malfunctioning machine. He sighed, then ran a hand through his hair, scowling. Seriously, what the hell was he doing? She was right. Sunny would be coming home, and, yeah, he ought feel excited. Giddy, even. He liked the guy (too much) and impending reunions like this were fit for a romantic drama, filled with swelling orchestral music and sparkling effects found commonplace in certain anime.

Instead, he was riddled with anxiety.

One of the sheep - a littler one, probably a runt - nudged his bicep. The nametag read “Wiggles.” Who allowed Sunny to be in charge of naming anything? Sebastian snorted, then ruffled through Wiggles’s fleece, in desperate need of a sheer.

“I know,” he said, “I want him back, too.” He glanced toward the window, where the morning sun finally began to breech the horizon and cause the stars to scatter. “I do. I do,” he repeated, unconvincingly. “I do.”

“Then look,” said the child, pointing toward the frosted glass, “for he will come back. He will. He will, just like Dad.”

Sebastian blinked, slowly, crust almost keeping his eyes shut -

and he turned away.

***

Some claimed any sort of progress was good progress. Sebastian claimed it to be as frustrating as pulling the same three-star heroes in any gacha game ad nauseam. He reworked the wiring fifteen (he counted) times already, and the stupid heater still overcooked the circuit breaker. Why. He checked the logistics multiple times, reconfigured the parts, and for fuck’s sake it was easier to piece together than a damn computer, but it still had the absolute audacity to keep kicking the bucket. Did he miss something? But he already disassembled it a gajillion times and looked everything over, but -

The door behind him shuddered open with a creak. He grunted, already used to the perpetual chill in his corner of the stable while the sheep rested comfortably next to the functional one. Must be lunchtime already. “In a minute,” he said as heavy footsteps drew near, “I’m too angry at this thing to eat. Hate to ask, but can you get Maru for me for a second opinion? And don’t you dare flirt with her, or I swear to Yoba, I’m gonna disown you as my friend.”

The door swung shut and the floorboards bent. A rustle of clothing emanated from behind him, a slight tink of metal dragging briefly against wood, and the uneven cadence of a rhythm of boots thmp-thmp-thmping drawing closer. A shadow cast over Sebastian, and, after a moment, his unwanted guest squatted beside him, palm extending outward with a gift. Sebastian glanced at it - oh, so he did misplace something after all, he just didn’t turn around to look like an idiot -

That wasn’t Abby’s skin color.

He froze, forefinger and thumb squeezing the outer rim of the missing part, all air escaping his lungs in one giant whoosh. Time suspended, and space contracted, leaving him cramped and isolated in the corner of a stable beside the person who wasn’t supposed to show up until tomorrow. He stared at the hand, then forced himself to trace the rest of the figure with his eyes before settling on a face.

Sunny’s face.

Thick scars webbed around one eye, which bore a lesser luster compared to the other, and the skin grafts didn’t quite match the rest of him. But it was Sunny nonetheless, with his big nose and braided hair and shy smile.

“Sunny,” he eeked out, a strangled version of his voice sputtering out of his lips.

Sunny broke their staring contest and nodded once before sitting cross-legged on the floor. He set his cane to one side and rummaged through his shoulder bag, all manner of trinkets clunking together, before he pulled out a box wrapped in black and silver wrapping paper. He nudged it against Sebastian’s foot before pulling out his cellphone.

I’M SORRY I MISSED YOUR BIRTHDAY LAST WEEK, he wrote. I WAS HOPING TO HAVE RECOVERED BEFOREHAND. HOPE IT’S OKAY THAT IT’S LATE.

There were slight tremors that shook the phone, and Sunny eventually had to let it drop to let his arm relax. Sebastian peered down at the box - a white ribbon with uneven loops sat on top, beckoning to be untied - before shooting another look at Sunny. A mixture of emotions slammed into him all at once, ranging between perturbation and elation. Some retched laugh bubbled from his clenched throat.

“That’s,” he managed, “the first thing you say, after all this time?”

After all the worry, all the agonizing of what the hell was going to happen when Sunny returned, after thinking maybe Sunny wanted nothing to do with him anymore because of what happened or because it might trigger unpleasant memories, Sunny’s first course of action was to deliver a present for a missed birthday. A birthday Sebastian honestly forgot about. Yet Sunny remembered, somehow, as he always did for everyone, and carried it with such weighted importance that it was at the forefront of his mind when they first spoke to each other since the fall.

“You - I.” Sebastian’s laughter overflowed into borderline maniacal as he dropped the missing part, hands splaying wide to cover his own face. No one could be that forgiving and be sane. No one like that in the universe existed. Sebastian couldn’t do a single thing right, be it stop Sunny’s tumble or from bleeding out. Someone else had to do that. It wasn’t like water passing beneath a bridge, to be inevitable and forgotten about, and yet. “You’re so - ”

Sunny’s fingers clamped around Sebastian’s wrists like vices, pulling them away from his face. His expression was an eerie blankness, one assessing Sebastian’s every miniscule shift, before leaning forward and pressing his forehead against Sebastian’s own. His eyes closed, and anything else Sebastian wanted to say died with the winds.

All was quiet, but the sentiment rang clear, like a train whistle in a canyon:

I don’t blame you. I can’t forgive what isn’t your fault. It’s okay.

You’re okay.

“I’m,” the child whispered, looking at his own palms, “okay.”

Early afternoon sunbeams radiated through the window, washing the child’s color out to see-through - then to nothing but dust illuminated in the light. Still, his words echoed in Sebastian’s head: I’m okay. I’m okay.

“Sunny,” he said again, pulling back. The mirage of broken limbs and a contorted body only flickered for a moment, and he looked down to the floor. He swallowed. “You’re back early.”

SURPRISE? Sunny’s sheepish smile returned, head tilt and all. Still, an undercurrent of muted fear clung to it stubbornly like seagulls fighting for morsels of food. As if he were afraid of Sebastian being mad or something, which was ridiculous. But he didn’t seem inclined to elaborate on that, instead typing out, I MISSED YOU. I MISSED YOU ALL TOO MUCH AND GOT DISCHARGED A LITTLE EARLY. NEVER UNDERESTIMATE A FARMER’S DEDICATION AND DETERMINATION.

Well. He would figure out Sunny’s worries another time, when he appeared more ready to do so. Pushing him now would be foolish. “And you’re mostly all better?”

Sunny’s thumbs hesitated. CONSIDERING I SHOULD HAVE DIED? I WOULD SAY SO. THANK YOU, he hurriedly added, BY THE WAY. FOR SAVING MY LIFE. THE DOCTORS TOLD ME YOU HELPED APPLY ENOUGH PRESSURE TO KEEP ME FROM LOSING TOO MUCH BLOOD.

“I did?”

Sunny nodded. YOU DID.

“Oh,” he replied, unsure of what to make of that. It didn’t feel like he did much at all - he thought he just made it worse. Sunny pursed his lips, then wrote,

YOU LOOK HUNGRY. WALK ME BACK HOME? I’LL MAKE YOU SOMETHING YUMMY IN THANKS. He extended an arm, a slight reddish tint spreading to his ears. Sebastian took a moment to understand his meaning, then scrambled to pick up the lost part and put it with the rest of his tools. The current heater would keep the sheep warm enough until he finished afterward. Then he picked up the present, wedged it under one arm, and offered Sunny’s cane with his free hand.

“Okay,” he said, “but even though I’m much shorter than you, you can’t use me as your walking stick. Just,” he latched an arm around Sunny’s, biting his bottom lip in embarrassment, “as support. Got it?”

It still felt surreal, and he still felt undeserving of this - of all of this. But the joy that spread across Sunny’s face, the stupidly bright sparkles in his dark brown eyes brighter than the glare against days’ old snow, objected otherwise. Sure, they were both somewhat a broken mess of people trying to work out their issues. Sure, Sebastian knew he needed to do something about himself, get counseling or whatever like Maru suggested. And sure, he still didn’t quite know what he was doing, juggling the turbulent feelings that caught him off guard in Sunny’s presence.

However, he did know - despite everything - that this also felt right.

He needed to keep it that way, too. He needed to work hard, and that prospect sucked ass. But if Sunny could relearn how to make his limbs move faster than ever just to see them - just to see him - again, then fuck, it was the absolute least he could do.

He couldn’t screw this up. Not again. Never again.

“I still can’t believe you got me a present,” he muttered on their way back to Sunny’s house, slowly. “Who even told you?”

Sunny chortled, gravelly as ever. He held out a hand and signed, [M-O-M.] Of course she’d tell him. He grunted and made a mental note to maybe to an extra round of dishes next week. The ribbon slipped easily as he finangled to open it single-handedly, curiosity urging him to open it before they got back. The wrapping paper was a bit more of a struggle, and Sunny all but giggled at Sebastian’s feeble attempts to fight the valiant tape trying to keep its kingdom together. His nails cut through the last lines of defense before peeling open the top.

In the box sat an umbrella: black, silver, and patterned with Flocobo faces from Conclusion Creation VI. He stopped walking, bringing the box closer to his face, his fingers pinching the slippery fabric. No way. How did - he looked up at Sunny, who appeared bashful.

THIS WAY YOU DON’T HAVE TO KEEP BORROWING MINE, Sunny explained, BUT RATHER I CAN BORROW YOURS INSTEAD FROM NOW ON BECAUSE IT’S COOLER-LOOKING.

“Thank you,” Sebastian breathed, then found himself smiling. “It is cooler-looking.”

I AM A CONNOISSEUR OF EXCELLENT TASTE, YES.

“For other people, maybe. I’ve seen your album collection. Seriously? The oldies? What are you, ninety?”

I MEAN, I HAVE THE CANE FOR IT, SO MAYBE NINETY-FOUR. AND IT’S NOT JUST THE OLDIES, THNX. I’LL HAVE YOU KNOW I’VE ALSO GOT SOME PUNK AND OTHER STUFF IN THERE TOO YOU MIGHT LIKE. Sunny winked. BUT NONE OF IT IS AS GOOD AS SAM’S BAND, IN MY OPINION.

Sebastian nudged him, and Sunny nudged him back, almost causing them to topple over into a snowbank.

In that moment, everything was all right.

And everything was going to be all right from now on, if Sebastian had anything to say about it.

Blinded by the sun, a star fell from the sky and burned to a crisp in the atmosphere, its ashes mingling with the beginnings of an afternoon snowfall.

Chapter Text

At first, the slight hindrances to Sunny’s daily life seemed minimal; he walked around all right with the use of his cane, he attended to his farm with an even greater diligence than previously known, and he hardly complained about his newfound circumstances. However, in Sebastian’s silent observations, there were fleeting moments of frustration simmering beneath his reassuring smiles. His impaired vision made him more prone to accidents, like bumping into countertops or fence posts. He tended to drop his tools at random intervals, prompting the arduous task of trying to recover it while struggling to maintain balance.

Most notably, however, his initiative for conversation dwindled, as standing upright and trying to sign no longer seemed viable. Signing one-handed, while doable, meant using the alphabet more often than not and dragged out Sunny’s sentences. Sebastian didn’t mind (hell, it gave him much-needed practice), but it bothered Sunny immensely. More often than not, he resorted to using his phone, of which he became a master at typing on his keyboard with one thumb.

“Hey,” Sebastian called from Sunny’s couch, his new usual haunting grounds between coding projects. He heard the rubber end of the cane plunk plunk plunk slowly toward the partition separating the living room and the kitchen, and Sunny’s head peeked out around the corner. “Since we’re all done with morning farming stuff, do you want me to, like, reorganize a bit inside? Make it a bit easier for you to get around and stuff?”

Sunny blinked. His brow knitted together.

“I wouldn’t offer if I minded,” he added to dissipate the building worry.

A beat passed, and Sunny acquiesced with a nod. Yeah, Sebastian figured as much. While Maru had clinic work and Abigail saddled with restocking at her father’s store, he actually caught up on his work between the farm and his current client list. Not only that, but his sleep schedule began to reshape into some form of normal-people schedule. He had energy to burn, more so than usual whenever he got jittery in the afternoon. His fingers itched to do something.

It was weird. He never put much stock in psychiatric medication (and he almost outright refused to accept the prescription), and nothing much seemed to change for the first three or so weeks. Now, though - between the weekly therapy sessions and the pills that improved his neuroreceptors to produce serotonin - he felt, well. Better. In general. More himself.

He pushed himself up off the couch and began removing the accumulated clutter around the living room, comprised of plates, Rascal’s gratuitous amount of toys, books, and cardboard boxes. After living here for almost a year now (Yoba, already? It passed in a blink of an eye), Sunny still hadn’t completely unpacked yet. Guess farming did kind of take a priority.

Still. They couldn’t just take up necessary space anymore. Sebastian peeled open one box, then another, filing away different books (wow, look at all this reference material he has. The hell is “Animal Husbandry?”) and notes and the occasional stuffed animal. Cute. Wait. He shook his head and forced himself to refocus. They hadn’t even talked about their peculiar relationship status yet - either not the right time or work cropping up at every available opportunity - despite all signs pointing toward favorable. Grappling with his feelings was apparently the easy part. The hard part was reconciliation.

And he knew Sunny felt something, if all the affectionate touching and lingering glances and whatnot indicated anything. Given his personality, actions spoke louder than words (both literally and metaphorically). Sebastian clicked his tongue as he pried open another box. Well, maybe he just needed to set the mood or something somehow, but he needed an idea. He could ask Sam. Or Abigail. But the thought of them teasing him relentlessly and asking for details embarrassed the hell out of him.

His hands sank into the tissue paper surrounding the items in the box. He touched something hard and familiar and hefty, and he pulled it out with curiosity. A black carrying case, one with a distinct violin shape, emerged from the rustling. He tilted his head and flicked open the tabs keeping it shut, bringing the expensive-looking, well-maintained violin into view. The satin lining, a bright yellow, also had a pristine-condition bow and several crumpled music sheets.

Sebastian frowned and unrolled them. A smaller, glossier paper fluttered to the floor; a polaroid picture with scribbles on the back. Four people stood in the frame, features almost mushed too tiny to make out, but the smiles were all the same.

On the back: Ferngill Republic Band Recital Competition (XXXX) - Momma, Mommy, Poppy, Sunny. Won first! :) We’re rooting for you to get to Nationals, Sunny! Do your best!

“Huh,” he said. He heard dishes clunking together coming from the kitchen, the sink turning off and on intermittently. He rose from his spot and meandered toward Sunny, who scrubbed earnestly at the grease clinging to a glass pan. “I thought you said you sucked at music, Sunny. But you went to nationals in high school band? That’s not sucking at all, you kn--”

The pan thunked out of Sunny’s grasp, soap suds flying into the air and dirty water sloshing onto the countertop. He looked over his shoulder, eyes wide, staring at the picture Sebastian held.

“You good?” Obviously the answer was “no,” but why, Sebastian couldn’t fathom a guess. “I just found your violin in one of the boxes while cleaning up, that’s all. I didn’t think you played.”

Sunny’s bottom lip trembled, an expression divided between thinly-veiled anger and shock. Neither appeared directed at Sebastian himself, but rather the photo itself and what it represented. His nostrils flared and his shoulders squared. Then, as quickly as it came, the storm abated, fleeing with a whoosh of a haggard sigh and a look of defeat.

I’M SORRY I LIED. IT’S JUST ANCIENT HISTORY NOW, THAT’S ALL.

“That’s all? Not for nothing, but I’ve never seen you more pissed off in my life. Do you hate violins now or something?” His attempt at easing the building tension failed utterly as Sunny shook his head.

IT’S MORE THAN THAT.

“I know. But, hey, you don’t have to talk about it,” Sebastian offered as a chance to drop the conversation, but Sunny’s thumb all but danced frantically along the keyboard, “if you don’t want? Uh.”

SEBASTIAN

IF I TOLD YOU THAT EVERYTHING ABOUT ME IS FAKE, WHAT WOULD YOU THINK?

Okay? That wasn’t how he anticipated this conversation going at all. “Not sure what you mean. Like your existence? Like,” his brow furrowed, “you’re an alien or something?”

That got a temporary smile out of him. The strangeness seeping into Sunny’s eyes receded somewhat, a slight twinkle returning. None of that was fake, not to Sebastian.

TRUTH IS, I’M NOT A GOOD PERSON. FAR FROM IT. I’M A PRETTY BAD ONE ON THE RUN FROM HIMSELF FOR THE PAST SEVERAL YEARS. He hobbled over to Sebastian and plucked the photo out of his hand, fingertips running along its edges with a crippled smile. THE VIOLIN INSTIGATED EVERYTHING. IT’S A REMINDER OF ALL I WAS AND ALL I HURT.

He paused. A flicker of resolve crossed his face as he held up his phone, only betrayed by the trembles in his arm.

DO YOU WANT TO HEAR THE REST OF IT? OR DO YOU WANT ME TO KEEP UP THE ILLUSION? IT’S UP TO YOU. YOU MIGHT AS WELL KNOW SO YOU CAN DECIDE WHETHER OR NOT YOU STILL WANT TO BE MY FRIEND.

Sebastian gestiated the words, sharp on the screen, for several seconds longer than necessary. He glanced at Sunny, who refused to make eye-contact. Guilt hung over him like a heavy fog after the rain, swallowing up surroundings and muffling all sound.

“Before I answer that, let’s sit down, yeah? Forget the dishes for now. Here, grab onto me.”

He led Sunny back to the couch, helping him sit, before going over to the fireplace and chucking a few additional logs into the hearth. Little fire sprites wiggled in dance before vanishing entirely up the chimney. He returned to Sunny’s side afterward, their knees knocking together as he took the open spot.

“Sure, you can tell me,” he answered at last, “but I’ve got to make something perfectly clear to you first. Got it?”

Sunny nodded, eyes wide in alarm. He straightened his back and swallowed hard in anticipation of Sebastian’s proposition.

“No matter what you say, I’m not going to hate you or disown you. Got that? I’m not perfect, either, so it’d kind of be a dick move to have you on some pedestal of perfection. It’s not like I didn’t do some shitty shit when I was younger, too, and I’m not Yoba, so I’m not gonna condemn you to the afterlife void, either. Just, whatever you did then,” he scratched his cheek and looked away, “doesn’t have any relevance to the Sunny I know now. Okay? And the Sunny I know is a pretty decent guy.”

It didn’t seem like much to say to him, but Sunny’s eyes welled up regardless. He lowered his head and nodded once, whether or not he actually believed Sebastian.

“And take your time,” Sebastian added. “I don’t need to be anywhere. But if it gets close to dinnertime, I’m gonna order take-out delivered here, ‘cause it’ll be too dark to get home in this weather.”

Sunny nodded again, less rigid this time, before lifting up his phone. He typed, deleted, and retyped several times before settling on,

OKAY. THEN LET ME START FROM THE BEGINNING.

***

(“Happy birthday!” Poppy sits on her knees on her chair, leaning forward in excitement. One of her braids almost falls into the cake, but Momma catches it. “C’mon, open it, open it!”

“Dear, I know you’re excited,” Momma chastises, “but Sunny just took a bite of his cake. Let him finish before he gets into presents, alright?”

Her excitement is palpable, radiating brighter than candles that decorated his chocolate cake. The chair teeters dangerously, and Momma sets it back down on all-fours to keep her safe. You crack a smile and heft up the largest present you’ve ever seen in all the ten years you’ve had birthdays. Little dancing sheep cover the wrapping paper, all wearing party hats, but none of them look as energetic as she does. You set it in your lap and, after a few seconds struggling with the shoddy wrapping job, tear it open.

And she beams.

“It’s just what you wanted, right?” Poppy asks, giddy babble raising her voice a few octaves. “Right? Oh, I knew you’d like it. Open the case, open the case!” She hops off her chair and waddles beside him as he clicks the case open as demanded. The violin’s finish glints under the kitchen light, a deep russet brown that almost matches your skin. The bow rests next to it, a little keychain clipped around the gap. A plastic sunflower.

“That way, you know it’s yours!” she explains, even though she must know to play properly, you’re going to have to take it off. Still, it matches the violin’s case, and it makes you smile. You wonder how many weeks’ worth of allowance she saved just to get this for you (and if Momma and Mommy helped, because violins are expensive). You pluck one of the strings with your fingernails.

“I love it,” you say, sharing Poppy’s smile. “Thank you.”

“Always! Ooh, and open this one next! I just know you’re going to love it, too!”

“Dear,” Mommy says, laughing at her enthusiasm. “Please let poor Sunny eat before he dies from a lack of sugar.”

“Okaaaay, okay.” She pouts, arms folding across her chest, but she is easily bribed back to joy with the promise of another slice to keep her complacent.

*

Since the house is a little tight-quartered, you practice on the hill to the dandelions. The music book leans against the tree trunk, paperclips keeping the pages flat against the combative winds. You sit cross-legged in front of it, violin propped awkwardly on your shoulder, bow steady against the strings. You test a few notes out, and they all sound awful, like some demonic ritual trying to resurrect an ancient beast to destroy the world like in those books Poppy loves.

The thought makes you giggle nonetheless, and you try again, scraping the strings like nails along a chalkboard. Maybe it needs some better tuning. You twist one of the knobs and try again. Better. You repeat the process until the sound is harmonious. Your arms ache from hoisting the violin for an extended period, so you make a note to start doing push-ups (even though you hate them more than pull-ups).

Practices go from every couple of days to every day, every afternoon after school and whenever you can steal more seconds to do so. Something about the violin resonates with you, how clear and beautiful it rings down the hill and with the breeze, carrying it all the way to the far-off valley. You get an idea, silly as it may be, and part your lips.

You sing with the violin.

It’s not as pretty as you imagined; your voice is less refined than a freshly found geode. Still, no one else is around (except maybe all the little monsters Poppy can see that you can’t), so why not?

“Wow,” someone says, and you squawk in surprise. “Oh, sorry! I didn’t mean to scare you. I just never heard a live violin before, so I got, you know, curious?” A boy with many freckles emerges from the bushes nearby. He’s a bit shorter than you, but looks about just as old. His fiery hair curls in every direction. “Um. I’m Gilbert. My friends call my Gil. What’s your name?”

You stare at this old timer-named stranger for a beat before answering cautiously, “Sunny.” There aren’t supposed to be any other kids in this part of town, unless someone moved here recently. Given that Poppy would’ve told you, this kid might be one of those shapeshifters she warned you about time and time again. You take one step back, just in case.

“Cool,” “Gil” says. He gives a friendly, toothy grin, and some part of you relaxes. Maybe he’s not that bad. Or you’re just easy prey. “All I can play are maracas. Can you do like a full song?”

Only two, and both of them kiddy songs. Still, you nod once, and ready your violin, feeling shy at your new audience. You make a few mistakes here and there, but if Gil notices, he doesn’t show it. He claps ecstatically at your makeshift performance, grinning ear-to-ear.

“Wow. That’s so cool. I wanna play an instrument, too.” He flops back onto the grass and stares up at the sky. “Maybe I should take up violin. Do you live here?”

You nod, and point down to the house at the bottom of the hill. Gil sits up and follows your finger.

“Huh, not far from us. We’re here on vacation from down south. Our place is that way,” he points through the thicket vaguely, “with our grandparents. We’ve got a swimming pool and stuff, but I didn’t think there was anyone around to hang out with.”

You’re not exactly the “hang out” type, despite your popularity at school. But something about Gil - something honest, something earnest - draws you to him. “We,” you manage, “can hang out. If you want. I can teach you how to play.”

“Really?” Those words are the magic ticket as Gil scrambles to get up on his feet. “Oh, wow! Thanks, Sunny! You’re so cool. Do you wanna come over tomorrow? I’ll ask my Grampy. Do you like video games? I brought some with me. I’ll let you play ‘em for teaching me and stuff!”

It’s then that you realize maybe you’re a little different from other boys. Other boys talk about cooties and liking girls and stuff all the time during school lunch, but you never quite understood it. Now, though, you feel a bit jittery, a little flushed. Something about Gil makes your heart pound painfully against your chest.

In hindsight, he was your first crush.

“Okay,” you say, and his million-watt smile just makes it all the worse.

*

You manage to keep things under wraps for middle school, claiming you just don’t have the time or interest in the dating scene because you’re too in love with music. It’s not that it’s a bad thing, liking guys; hell, your moms are lesbians. But school is ravenous, a hungry beast ready to look for any reason to feed you to the wolves. You’ve seen it first-hand with Poppy. To make everyone in your family worry less, you decide to keep it tucked away for now.

You bring your violin with you to high school, joining the classical band. Your skill lands you a solo performance in your sophomore year - something unusual - and your family is ecstatic for you. They come to your recital dressed to the nines and give you a standing ovation in the upper balcony of the auditorium when you finish your piece.

From there, it keeps escalating. The band director wants you to help compete in Nationals for a chance to represent the Ferngill Republic with your playing.

You should’ve said no.

*

“Wow,” says someone, oddly familiar from a handful of years past, “no way. Sunny? Is that you? Holy cow, man, you shot up three feet since I last saw you!”

It’s in some unfamiliar school’s theater room where you two reunite. You’re finangling the tie your Momma gave you (donning cartoon suns wearing sunglasses) to wear with your ironed dress shirt when he approaches. You cannot mistake that bright red hair, the curls. The last time you saw him, you waved goodbye in a fit of little kid tears at the prospect of never seeing your new best friend again. He cried too, from the back of the family van, but the two of you pinky-promised to stay in contact.

But, well. Kids always find something new and shiny to distract themselves with. Now, though, in your prime, having reached sixteen, things are different. Very different.

“Gil,” you reply, throat going dry. Yoba, did he get even more handsome?

“You remembered!” Gil laughs and swats your shoulder. The force almost topples you into the full-body mirror. “How’s it going, man? I’m amazed you stuck with it all this time. So did I!” He pats his own violin case, covered in stickers. The centerpiece is of his school’s emblem, one far from your home. “Dude, does that mean we’re gonna go toe-to-toe on the stage? I’m gonna destroy you to bits, man. Sorry, not sorry. Kidding! Kidding. No need to look so serious.”

“Mm,” you say, for lack of anything better to say. Talking is not your strong suit, but apparently, that’s what “all the ladies dig,” if what the banter at the lunch table is anything to go by. Tall, dark, and handsome. You still don’t get it. Does Gil like those traits?

“You good? You look like you just developed an instantaneous fever.”

“Just stuffy,” you lie.

“Oh, dude, I so feel you,” Gil prattles on, batting your hands and reaching up to fix your horrible tie job. “Like, it’s hot as fuck on stage, and they make us put on button-ups and dress pants? What kinda bull is that? These shoes are murder, man, lemme tell you. Hey,” he continues on, unrelenting, and you’re caught up in his storm, “once this is all done, you wanna come with my mates and chill at Bendy’s? They’ve got this new burger I’ve been dying to try, and we’ve just gotta catch up, man. It’s been, like, years. Man, I feel ancient.”

“You’re younger than me by two months, so what does that make me?” you ask.

Gil grins. “Dust?”

“I’ll make for good fertilizer for Poppy’s farming expeditions, then.”

He laughs, and dear Yoba, it’s the most pleasant sound you’ve ever heard. You swallow hard when he lets go of your tie. “So she’s going to follow your Gramp’s footsteps, eh? Man, that sounds like a lot of work. I’m way too lazy for that.”

“Same.”

“Yeah right, man. Like, even when we were kids, you were so thorough with shit, it was crazy. Don’t think I don’t remember getting a perfect GachaDex in Gachamon Opal. You played that for a straight week!”

Your reminiscing session is interrupted by one of the chaperones coming into the room and announcing to the swell of aspiring musicians that it’s time. You gather your violin case and hurry alongside Gil, who wishes you luck.

You ride that high on your strings, loud and unyielding beneath the spotlights glaring down on you, every note punctuated with the thu-thud aching in your chest. You never were one for words, but the violin speaks for you, reigniting a long-buried crush into a pyre, logs of longing piled high to the wishing stars up above. It has to mean something, right? It has to. After so long, to think he’d pursue the violin too - and to be competitors, no less! It has to. No way they would part and crash into each other again for nothing to come of it.

So says the daydreamer in you. The realist in you tells you to remember your place. It’s a big world outside, after all. Many people pursue musical dreams. Gil just so happens to be one of them. There’s no underlying secret meaning to it, unlike what your English teachers may try to tell you. Furthermore, to pursue something simply because of something so trivial like “love at first sight” sounded so childlike you might as well return to being ten again. Get real.

Regardless, your violin comes alive beneath your calloused fingertips, the bow bending and your head tilted back to hear. In the chambers of the auditorium, all else is silent to your whims. And when it reaches its crescendo, and the tinny note trails off to naught but a whisper, its met with rapturous applause and whistles.

You glance down at the audience, comprised of both non-players and competitors alike. Your eyes lock with Gil’s, who’s mouth hangs open, his friends nudging him and saying something you are not privy to. If he understands what you imbued into your siren’s call, you cannot tell.

But you will find out later.

*

“You didn’t tell me you’re a freaking prodigy, dude!” Gil wraps an arm around your shoulders before pulling you into a chokehold, giving you a noogie. “Holy shit! What the hell was that! How the hell am I supposed to compete against that? Dude, I couldn’t play for shit after seeing you, I swear I forgot a good third of my act.”

“More like half of it,” one of his buddies says, and Gil sticks out his tongue.

“Whatever, man. Who cares? I get to brag about my old bestie being on his way to taking the classical world by storm. Bro, can I get your autograph? I wanna get ahead of the curb for when you become famous.” He’s got the tone that he’s half-kidding, half-serious. You dig out a pen and, after yanking on his hand, scribble the worst cursive in your life on his palm. Underneath that, you leave your cellphone number. To keep in touch, you say.

He adds you in his contacts on the spot.

*

As fate would have it, Gil’s school decides to host joint-practices with yours to help bolster a “sense of unity” or whatever throughout the Ferngill Republic. Poppy calls it nationality propaganda to put up a united front against the Empire. You call it an opportunity to get even closer to the guy you like. Same thing, right? Who cares about some growing tensions about nations, you’ve got more important matters at hand.

Gil adopts you into his friend group. You don’t have many close ones, so it’s a breath of fresh air to have someone to pal around with for a change. Around him, you’re more open. You laugh easier. He doesn’t hold much expectations for you, other than bragging to random strangers when you ditch practice early about how you’re the next best thing since horseradish cream cheese. You take his word for it, because horseradish tastes nasty.

It’s during one of the trips to Bendy’s with his friends when the tentative hope for a hopeless romantic like you gets snuffed beneath their heels.

“You heard, right?” Mark says, dunking a nugget into his ketchup container and getting it everywhere as usual. “About Mr. Nobleson?”

“What, our math teacher?” Gil nabs one of your fries, which you happily share. “No, what’s up? Did he break his glasses again? How can any one dude sit on the same pair twenty times? Gimme a sip of your Bepsi, Sunny.” You do, and his grin is so worth it. Gil shoots you a thumbs up and nudges your elbow, clearly having lost interest in Mark’s latest gossip dump.

Mark clears his throat, agitated. “He’s getting married.”

“Oh, whoa, cool! Can’t believe someone can deal with him complaining about his own subject for forty minutes a day, but whatever floats her bo - ”

“To a man,” Mark elaborates, and with such venom and disgust in his voice you freeze in your spot. The atmosphere around the table grows awkward. Gil avoids eye contact with you, a fractured sheepish laugh escaping him as he buys himself time by munching on another fry. “That goes against all laws of nature.”

You never are one for words, and even though you wish you could speak your mind, to tell Mark to piss off, it dies in your throat. You look around the table, hoping someone else does it for you.

And no one steps forward.

“Sure,” Gil says, head lowering, “I guess so. Hey, but, you know,” and he continues onwards to change the conversation, but whatever else he says becomes an ever-growing static, harsh and biting and wriggling like ants through your ear canal to build a new colony composed of betrayal.

Sure. I guess so.

Sure. I guess so.

Sure,

Someone says something, and you make a grunt in acknowledgment. Your thoughts are muddled with a rage you’ve never known. It burns, and it festers, and it peels through your skin in a reddish glow. The chatter is annoying. It gets to be too much, and you abruptly rise from your chair. It topples over onto the tiled floor, attracting the eyes of the other customers nearby.

I guess so.

“Sunny,” Gil says quietly, gaze pleading, and you ignore him to leave. There’s some commotion behind you as you step outside, heading back toward the school - or at least in some direction toward it, you’re not entirely certain. The sidewalk’s there, then the crosswalk, then a park, then some suburb you’re not entirely familiar with. A hand latches around your wrist, “Sunny!” and forces you to confront a stranger donning the same face of what you considered a friend.

You snap your wrist free. “What.”

“Look, I’m sorry,” says Gil, “Mark totally went over the line, and I get it. But - ” there’s a but to this? “ - he’s a good dude, deep down, and I didn’t want to create any problems. You know? But I’ll talk to him. I know your moms are, you know, so I know you probably took that personally, and - ”

“If you know he’s an ass, then why keep him as a friend to begin with?”

A flicker of guilt crosses Gil’s face. “I mean, dude, he’s the top performer in our band. If I make enemies with him, I might as well be disowned from the whole shebang. I don’t wanna lose my chances - ”

“So you’d rather lose a friend over a chance to go big.”

“That’s not what I mean!” Gil backtracks, waving his hands, but it’s evident there’s no recovering from the massive fuck-up he committed. “Shit. Like, it’s just, it’s hard, you know? It’s not so black and white when it comes to dealing with people. You gotta understand, man, if I mess this up, then what the hell else do I got? I’m no brainiac like you. I’m not talented like you. If I don’t latch onto someone who is, then what’s left for a nobody like me?”

Ah. So that’s how it is. You want to laugh, and you do, crooked and harsh like the reality of the world this revelation bestowed unto you. People will willingly sacrifice their own values in order to appeal to those lauding their influence just to get three inches ahead of the rest. Deep down, you already know this by how everyone treats Poppy. Deep down, you already know this by being unable to defend her honor.

How can you get angry at everyone else when you’re the worst offender?

Gil sucks in a sharp breath, perhaps understanding the enormity of his own mistake, before taking a few steps toward you and putting your violin case at your feet. You had left it behind. He looks up at you, lips parting to say something, and you grab onto his shoulders. You have half a mind to scream at him, to expose the hypocrisy within you, but all that comes out is a deep, shuddering sigh.

And you let him go.

“Delete my number,” you say, picking up the case. You’re tempted to throw it in the nearby river, but Poppy gave it to you. Poppy saved her allowance for you, and to discard it like trash would be too great a sin. “We’re done. Good luck,” you add before he gets a chance to begin his next phase of bargaining, “at the upcoming performance. I’m sure you and your team will do great.”

“I’m sorry,” Gil says, and he sounds like he means it, but who knows anymore? He’ll say anything to get on someone’s good side, as you just learned. Perhaps your first assessment of him in your childhood was correct, after all: he is a monster. One who wears many faces to lure you into a false sense of security before shredding your heart to bits when you least suspect it. “Sunny, please, I’m sorry, man, can’t we work this out somehow or - come on, man, we’re best friends, you can’t just walk away!”

Instead of deigning his plea with an answer, you permit the sound of silence to fill the widening rift between you.

*

Poppy knows something is wrong, because of course she does. She’s had a knack of knowing how you feel, regardless of how placid you act. She comes to your bedroom unannounced and eyes the violin case tossed carelessly at the foot of your bed. She picks up one of the torn music sheets and toes over the crumpled dress clothes you didn’t bother to deposit into the hamper. The tinny sound of some TV show you’ve watched a gajillion times plays in the background from your laptop, emitting the only light in the darkened space.

She takes a seat in your vacant chair and spins in circles. It creaks beneath her weight.

“So you quit band,” she says several minutes later. “Momma told me.”

“There’s no point in it,” you mumble, eyes glued to your computer screen.

“There’s no point in anything in the world, you know,” she replies, “until you yourself make the point in it.”

“I’m not in the mood for Poppy philosophy, thanks.” You pointedly turn up the volume on your laptop, but it doesn’t deter her. She stops spinning in her chair and levels a stare at you, pressing and too magnified to ignore. Sighing, you pause the episode and stare back at her, pretending to be nonplussed. “Yeah? Shouldn’t you be packing or whatever for college and stuff?”

“I have it on good authority that you’ve been crying,” she says. Ugh, of course she does. Those stupid invisible monster-friends of hers that she sees are nothing but gossip-hogs. “I’m worried about my baby brother. Can’t really focus on college when family comes first.”

“Why not worry about yourself for a change,” you grouse, sitting up. The blankets fall around you. “How come you let everyone push you around? Why won’t you ever stand up for yourself for a change? You just allow it to happen and laugh it off! Letting people tear you down is no way to get ahead, or are you just like everyone else? Being a stupid walking door mat with no backbone!” You’re losing the thread of your rant, but Poppy lets you continue unabated, the build-up of years of frustration breaking free. “Do you even know what they call you!? Do you even care that they’re just keeping you around as the butt of a fucking joke?! How can you smile it off and laugh and care so much about assholes who’ll just trample over how you feel?! I don’t understand. I can’t understand. It’s so fucking painful, I can’t - how do you do it?”

Poppy smooths the wrinkles in her baggy jeans and smiles. She wiggles her pudgy fingers, as if inspecting them. “You don’t have to understand,” she answers. “It’s just how I am. Really, I’m jealous that you have enough self-respect to cut those who piss you off out of your life. That takes real strength.” She pauses. “Did someone hurt you?” When you nod, her brow knits together, and she rises from your chair to sit next to you on your bed. “Someone close, I’m guessing?”

“I hate him,” you spit out, not entirely convincingly. “I never want to see him again.”

“Ah.”

She pats your shoulder, softly, and it’s enough to make you into a crying mess. How many times have you heard her cry behind closed doors? How many times did you lose the courage to knock on her door to comfort her? You’re the worst, but Poppy loves you all the same, as Poppy is one to do. She gathers you into her arms, shushing you, rubbing circles into your back.

Of anyone in the world, Poppy will forever be your truest best friend.

“Listen, Sunny.” She pats you. “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do, alright? It’s okay if you give up the violin and the scholarships to do something else. So long as you find something that makes you happy, then me and Momma and Mommy’ll be happy. Okay? It’s okay. You don’t have to keep doing something you don’t want just to make other people satisfied.”

“Can’t you take your own advice for once?” you choke out, sniveling.

“I am my own worst enemy,” she admits, laughing. “Do you want some chocolate milk? We’ve got some syrup mix in the fridge, and some whipped cream. Yeah? Alright, stay put. I’ll make sure you get the big glass, too.” She winks, and pries you out of her arms to meander to the kitchen.

You take a moment to decompress, eyes stinging and face blotchy. Your phone sits undercharged next to your laptop, and you finally commit to blocking Gil’s number. Whatever part in you that hoped to reconcile withers to a commitment to never expose your softness to anyone again. Never again. Except Poppy. And a world who wants to hurt Poppy relentlessly is no world you wish to be a part of.

So you close yourself off to it.

*

Gil’s school wins, apparently. You don’t know how you come across the news, since you have switched to homeschooling for the last year of your high school career. You’ve already lined up a job at some well-known corporation to make some spare cash. If you could become a hermit, you would, but your lackluster knowledge in self-sufficiency pales in comparison to Poppy’s, who continues to try to integrate herself into the very society that keeps rejecting her. Instead, you see in on your social media feed somehow, retweeted from someone you don’t even know. There’s Mark in the center, glowing with pride, and Gil beside him, smiling just as bright.

Yeah. You made the right choice. You scroll down to further tragedies, ranging from the deadly war to famine to economic woes. Sometimes an ad crops up, offering deals curated for musicians; a reminder of what you once was, but never will be now.

You close the tab, and pick up the Joja brochure, outlining the next fifty years of your foreseeable, worthless life. Your phone dings with a match from some dating website for your next hook-up to pass the time.

Might as well use them back.

For a second, your gaze sweeps over a cardboard box. A part of you wants to rummage through it, pull out the phantom limb you haven’t used in over a year and a half now. The violin is - was - a part of you, and without it, you feel aimless.

But that was then, and this is now. And now, you can’t bring yourself to care.)

*

Sunny’s thumbs rested for a spell, his long-winded explanation ending in a blinking cursor on a tiny screen. He let out a sigh, shoulders slumping, before setting his phone aside. His head lulled onto the back of the couch, eyes closed. Sebastian remained quiet, mulling over Sunny’s history. What was there to say? Something to lighten the mood, maybe? An oppressive air weighed them down.

“That’s - yeah. That’s a lot,” he said lamely. Dammit, Sebastian. He tried again. “It’s good your sister supports you, though. I didn’t know you have one.”

HAD.

Three letters prompted Sebastian’s jaw to clamp shut. Had. “Oh,” he whispered. “Um. I’m sorry.”

POPPY INHERITED THIS FARM, ACTUALLY. IT USED TO BELONG TO OUR GRANDFATHER. Sunny looked around the renovated cabin, a small, pitiful smile on his lips. SHE WAS THE ONE WHO WAS SUPPOSED TO MOVE HERE, NOT ME. I THINK YOU WOULD HAVE LIKED HER A LOT. BUT YOU GOT ME INSTEAD. He shook his head. SOME COPY OF POPPY, SOME BORROWED PERSONALITY, STEALING HIS SISTER’S DREAM BECAUSE HE FEELS GUILTY ABOUT WHAT HAPPENED TO HER.

“What,” he ventured, “happened to her?”

she killed herself. He accidentally turned off his caps lock, but didn’t bother turning it back on. the love of her life cheated on her. bastard found someone “hotter” and used her as a place to crash and come home to once he was satisfied. she found out, and reached out to me to comfort her. know what i did? i ignored her. after everything she did for me, being my no. 1 cheerleader and everything, i ignored my best friend to finish work instead. i thought she would be okay. she always seemed okay. out of the two of us, she was the strongest one. even after momma got drafted to the war, she kept our family together. she organized the funeral once we found out she died when mommy was incapacitated from it. and when mommy died of a broken heart, she consoled me, took care of the paperwork - everything. poppy was there for me for everything. she gave me a dream.

and to repay her, i all but spit in her fucking face and gave her the cold shoulder. and i can never forgive myself for that. i hate me most of all, above everyone else in this world. i am so sorry. i'm sorry. but i know apologies will never be enough to fix what i did.

Good Yoba. Sebastian read the paragraph, then glanced up at Sunny’s face, which took on a calculated neutrality. A peculiar blankness. He allowed the phone to drop, as if to say, well, now you know who I really am, and faced Sebastian as though prepared to hear his judgment. The fire spat an overcooked ember in the background. Rascal yawned and stretched, getting comfortable. The sun began to set, dying the clouds outside a gentle pink to contrast the deep dark blues above.

Sebastian stood up, a decision made. Sunny flinched and curled in on himself somewhat, bracing for the anticipated answer.

“Stay put,” he said. Sunny blinked and looked up, clearly taken by surprise at the order. “I’ll be right back. Might take me a bit, but you’ll know when I’m here.”

He grabbed his coat and, after giving Rascal a few head skritches, braved the chill to head back to his house. His keys jingled in his pocket as he allowed his thoughts to wander. Borrowed personality, huh? The Sunny before coming to the valley sounded jaded and disgruntled at the universe, or so Sunny purported. But. He scuffed his boots by the welcome mat of the front door and stepped inside. Mom lifted her head and smiled at him.

“Welcome back,” she said. “How’s the farm? You in the mood for dinner?”

He shrugged and padded around the counter, then, for the first time in ages, pulled her into an awkward-angled hug. She made a surprised sound and dropped her magazine. Then she broke out into a bewildered laugh, patting his shoulder. “Hello?” she said. “Was Maru right? Did our Sebby get abducted and replaced by those secret alien overlords?”

“Maybe,” he answered, then released her. “Just. I don’t know. Thanks for being a cool mom all these years. I’m gonna be home late, so don’t save me a plate.”

Her surprise shifted to concern. “Are you okay?”

“What? Oh, no, I’m not - yeah, I’m good. Don’t worry. I’m just going to show a friend something close to town, but it takes a bit to get there is all. Sorry for being weird.” His cheeks burned with embarrassment. Yeah, he knew he was being strange, but the thought of never seeing Mom again for some unforeseen circumstances beyond his control bothered him. Some people never got the chance to say things they always meant to say, but didn’t.

“Okay?” She pursed her lips. “Be safe out there, Sebby.”

“I will. Thanks, Mom. Oh, I’m grabbing my motorcycle. Can you close the garage door once I leave?”

“I keep telling you to invest in a stepladder there, shorty.” She laughed and he rolled his eyes. Just whose genetics are to blame for that?

He walked back outside and to the garage. There sat Stella, her shiny blue paint job reflecting the the above fluorescent lighting. Her restoration still made him feel like a proud parent, one who boasted to his coworkers at the water cooler at every opportunity he got.

“Alright, girl,” he said, straddling her seat and putting the keys in the ignition. “Our prince awaits his chariot. Did I seriously just say that? Don’t tell anyone.”

Stella hummed to life, her engine purring. Fortunately, she was equipped with all-weather tires, and the plow guys did a somewhat decent job keeping the tarmac cleared on most of the main drags. This might be a bad idea, in the end; he had no idea if Sunny even wanted to go out, being somewhat incapacitated from his fall and everything. However, Sebastian couldn’t just do nothing, and that place would help him think about what he wanted to say better.

Maybe it would help Sunny, too.

By the time her headlamp cast its light on Sunny’s cabin door, Sunny peered out the front window, eyes wide in surprise. The light flicked off, and Sebastian propped Stella on her kickstand before approaching the now-opened door. He brushed by Sunny and picked up the violin case. He lugged it over his shoulder and jabbed a thumb toward Stella.

“Come with me?” he asked, quirking an eyebrow. Sunny’s brain took a few visible seconds to process the request, responding with a hesitant nod. “Cool. Bring a coat, you summer-lover, else you’ll turn into a popsicle before we get there.”

*

A tapestry of stars weaved the night sky, accompanied by the low-hanging winter moon. In the distance, the city skyline of Zuzu blinked and twinkled in its own manufactured reproduction of the universe’s magic. Stella slowed to a crawl before coming to a halt, and Sebastian turned off her engine. Sunny peeled his arms off of Sebastian’s waist, which squeezed him nearly half to death the whole way there. Not that Sebastian could blame him; his first time on a motorcycle, he clung to his instructor for dear life. He propped up the kickstand and rummaged through her storage compartment, pulling out his spare cigarettes and the violin case.

Right. Time to pretend to know what the hell he was doing.

He approached Sunny, who stood reasonably far enough away from the cliff overlooking the view, and set the violin case next to him. Then he pulled out a lighter, struggling to get the flame to jut out, and lit the cigarette wedged between his lips. He inhaled, then exhaled the smoke and his jitters.

“So.”

He gestured to the view sprawling before them.

“What do you think?”

Sunny swayed a little, leaning on the collapsible cane he brought with him. He gazed over at the city, almost emotionless, before shaking his head.

[SAD,] he signed. [LONELY.]

“Yeah, I get that. You know,” he said, flicking the butt of his cigarette, “I come here whenever I just need to think about stuff. Sometimes it’s projects. Sometimes it’s emotional crap. No one ever comes out this way, so it’s like my secret hideaway whenever I need to get away from the valley. I used to look at the city and think, ‘that’s where I’m gonna go someday and get as far away from home as possible.’ Well,” he scratched the back of his neck, “not so much anymore, though. Aha.”

Sunny glanced at him, lips drawn into a tight line. Sebastian glanced back, then down at the violin case.

“You said that the violin is like your voice, right? When you were telling me about your past.” He hesitated and bought himself some more time by taking another drag of the cigarette. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to hear it. But it’s okay if you don’t want to, either.”

The request lingered between them, soft yet heavy all the same. Sunny’s bottom lip quivered as he peered down at the violin. Sebastian expected a rejection, but after a moment, Sunny sat down, unclipped the case, and delicately removed the violin from its resting place. He held it with great reverence, cradling it in his lap, tracing the strings with his fingertips. He lifted the bow next, inspecting it, and then rested the violin on his shoulder.

All was quiet.

Sunny began to play.

The notes, at first, sounded rusty, worn with ages without practice, trying to regain memories of times long lost to the past. Moments trickled into familiarity, the sound ringing clearer, crisp as fresh snowfall. Sebastian breathed, and closed his eyes.

And listened.

He heard the flowers blossom in the spring, buds swaying on tree branches. He heard the sizzle of asphalt and soles of shoes against hot sand. He heard the rain, the wind, the crinkle of leaves raked into mountains. He heard the crackle of a fire, the slush against boots. He heard the creaks and groans of the old community center, a clock frozen in time. He heard the laps of waves on a muddy lakefront, the wssh of a fishing line. He heard the bend of a makeshift bridge, the clinks of metals in a bulging bag. He heard the clack of pool balls hitting each other before tumbling down plastic pipes, the jukebox belting in the background, the pitter-patter of dancing feet, the sixth glass of Pam’s refilled tankard slamming against the counter. He heard Sam’s laugh, Abigail’s jabs, and his own dismissive comments. He heard the slosh of soup poured into a container, the roll of the dice, the cheers for a band of imaginary creatures. He heard the soft gasp of finding a treasure, perfectly round, perfectly cold, a recipient already in mind. He heard the swing of an axe, the drag of a hoe, the sprinkle of seeds for a carefully kept dream.

He heard the hymn of Stardew Valley, of a home forged from borrowed goals and a stitched-together bleeding heart, of a home found among the pieces of something thought lost.

Sebastian opened his eyes once the piece finished, and smiled.

“Sunny,” he said, “you know, Sam told me something once that kind of stuck with me. He said that music’s a way to let your soul out or some equally cheesy-ass shit. It was how he kinda got me roped into his band, ‘cause I wanted to be heard somehow.” He knelt beside Sunny, cigarette discarded. “Point is, I think I can kinda get a read on how people are from when they play. Wanna know what I hear when I listen to you?”

He took a gamble and placed a hand on the juncture of Sunny’s neck and shoulder.

“I hear a guy who’s too hard on himself for being a person who isn’t perfect and made mistakes. I hear a guy who tried to pretend to not care about much to keep himself safe, and that didn’t really work out. I hear someone who blames himself for something he couldn’t have predicted. But most importantly,” he squeezed Sunny, “I hear someone who has a big, caring heart despite all you’ve been through. You told me you’re fake? That you’re not a good person? I call bull, Sunny. I say that with confidence, because you’re the reason why I don’t want to leave home anymore.

“You’re,” he broke eye contact, face burning, “special to me, and I’ve never felt this way about a man before. Do you get what I’m saying? I’m happy,” he forced himself to meet Sunny once more, with everything he was, “that I met you. Don’t you get it? You being in my life - in everyone’s lives - you made it all the better, not worse. And a bad person can’t do that. Because you’re not that. You’re also not your sister. You’re Sunny, got it? And Sunny is the person I,” he licked his lips, “am, uh, you know, like - in l-love with. Don’t you forget that. No matter how much you hate yourself or whatever, I’ll be here to remind you how much you are loved. No matter what.”

He placed his hands on Sunny’s cheeks, who gasped. His eyes watered over with tears, his brown eyes capturing the stars high above. He sputtered, hands abandoning the violin and clasping Sebastian’s own. His eyelids fluttered shut, face contorting between relief and long-subdued sadness. The sobs broke out then, guttural and thick, uncontrollable and overdue. Sebastian held him, and felt Sunny’s hands slip away to sign something -

[I’M SORRY.]

“Don’t be. I’m happy to be here for you. I mean that. Hey, look at me for a sec?”

Sunny obliged, sniffling. Even in this state, Abigail’s long-time character crush Gunther couldn’t hold a candle to the likes of him. Sebastian leaned forward, tilting Sunny’s head back, and gave him a proper, second-time’s-the-charm kiss. It was short, sweet, and with significantly less teeth-clacking than the first one. Sunny froze, but reciprocated after a few seconds, shy and all too endearing.

“Thank you,” he said when they broke apart, “for coming into my life, Sunny. For everything.”

Sunny hesitated, then cracked a smile: one that solely belonged to him, and not in a haunted memory’s shadow. Bright, dazzling, like the oncoming dawn, like embracing the full nuance to his own name. Sebastian basked in its rays as opposed to clamoring for the shadows as he usually did. Sunny lifted his unfettered hands, and signed, without pause, without a second thought:

[I LOVE YOU, TOO.]

Chapter Text

Spring returned to Pelican Town in the slow melt of slush and quiet unfurl of leaves. With it, the rains came, pelting the dirt and stone and sands of shores he stood upon. He gazed outward at the whitecaps, umbrella propped onto his shoulder, seagulls grounded nearby. Salt tickled his nostrils as he shuffled onto the dock, abandoned by man for the afternoon, leaving him alone in the world once more.

He exhaled slowly, and instinctively reached for a cigarette. Then he stopped, fingers twitching, and allowing them to fall back to his side. The wood creaked beneath his feet as he approached the pier’s edge; a familiar sequence of events he practiced for years now. Today would be one of the last, if not the last, if he had anything to say about it. Which was everything. The only problem was trying to get a grip on his impulses, the urge to go out to sea when it rained.

His therapist said that progress never remained constant and fluctuated between breakthroughs and set-backs. However, in order to make any progress, one must confront themselves at some point. Confront and embrace. Confront and embrace? Easier said than done, but - but.

“Hi,” he said, awkwardly, quietly, soft enough to be drowned out by the rain. He cleared his throat, and tried again: “Hi, Dad.”

No one answered, as expected, and it still stung. Sebastian watched droplets fall from the umbrella’s lining and plip-plop onto the planks. This felt stupid. He felt stupid. He let out a frustrated grunt and rubbed the back of his head.

“It’s been over a season now, huh. Since I last came out to, uh, see you. I don’t think I’ll be doing that much more often anymore. I don’t think it’s,” he shifted his weight from one foot to the other, “good for me. You know. Reopening old wounds like this all the time. I don’t think you’d want that for me, either. Not the Dad I knew. Still, I wanted to just, like, share, one more time. I want to tell you that things are better before I let go. Or at least okay-er.”

He allowed a lull to lapse between them. The waves skidded across the beach, dragging pebbles to regain ground before pulling them back into the continuous turbulence. A broken glass bottle, half-buried, sat upright and caught sea shells discarded by the ocean, a colorful bouquet of aquatic remains. Sunny might like it; he had a penchant for liking peculiar things. Sebastian huffed out a small laugh before fixing his attention back to the gray horizon.

“I don’t even know where to start. I guess maybe, like - Maru and I are getting along more. I mean, it’s not, you know, perfect or whatever, but she doesn’t grate my nerves like she used to. Or I’ve just matured somehow. Or we’ve found a similar wavelength to relate to each other or something. Same with Demetrius. He’s not you, and he’ll never be you, and he ticks me off a lot, but he’s not a bad person. It might take longer for us to, you know, get each other, but I don’t think it’s impossible. At least, not anymore.”

He put his free hand into his sweatshirt’s front pocket, fiddling with the lighter that went unused for a couple of months now.

“Mom’s,” he started, stopped, and sighed. “Mom’s strong as ever, too. Happy. I think you’d be glad to know that she’s really living out her dreams. She’s gotten a lot of business lately, which is great. She’s out of the house more often these days working on projects she likes. I think one of these days she’ll expand beyond the valley and have a legit, like, construction company or something. Or not.”

He picked at the lint in his pocket.

“Um. And me, I guess. I’m alright. I didn’t used to be for a very, very long time. I hated everyone and everything around me so much because I just didn’t know how to cope with - with what happened. I missed out on a lot ‘cause of that. But unlike you, I don’t have to keep missing out on stuff. I don’t know why,” his brow furrowed, “you did what you did. I don’t know why you just gave up on everything like that. It - it pisses me off. You know? That you did that. That you just upped and abandoned everything ‘cause you were too proud to admit maybe you weren’t okay. And the shittiest part is, of all the things I could’ve learned from that, I chose to learn that pride. I secluded myself from everyone around me. I didn’t want anyone to see that weakness that I had. That we both had.”

Talking so much hurt his throat. He snorted at the irony of being surrounded by water, but being unable to drink any of it without getting sick.

“Not anymore, though. I mean, yeah, it feels weird as hell to talk to people about how you actually feel, but now I feel seen. People give a shit about me. Abby and Sam and my family and, uh, my,” he glanced upward, “boyfriend. I just needed to look around and realize that. I wasn’t ever alone, I just thought I was. Probably like you thought you were. But we’re not. I’m not.” He wrinkled his nose in embarrassment, unsure how to wrap up his little sermon to the air. “So yeah. Yeah. I’m fine. I’m gonna keep going towards being fine, and to do that, I need to just stop coming here so often and blaming myself for shit I couldn’t control as a kid. You made your choice,” he closed his eyes, “and I’m going to keep making mine on my own. I’m going to live, through the good and bad. I just wish you were here to see it. I still hope, wherever you are, that you’ll be proud that I’m trying.”

No small child materialized beside him in his peripheral. No mermaids popped their scaly heads out of the waters to smile at him. He squeezed the umbrella’s handle and nodded once, finalizing his miniature speech, then turned on his heel and walked away.

“Goodbye, Dad.”

He didn’t look back the whole way back to the house.

*

“Are you kidding me?” Sam slapped his own forehead in feigned frustration, his legs buckling at the knee in a dramatized slump onto the tavern floor. He clutched his pool stick to his chest, staring down upon it as though it were his brother-in-arms for a season of warfare only to learn it were an enemy spy the entire time. “How? How can this keep happening?”

“You ask that every time,” Abigail replied, lounging on her makeshift throne comprised of the saloon’s couch, “and every time I keep telling you to wait until he’s crippled by arthritis once he hits thirty. Then you’ll make your comeback.”

Sebastian gathered up the balls and set them back onto the table, the high of another victory secured under his belt propelling his good spirits into brimming confidence. He winked at Sam, who laughed and rose to his feet.

“I’ll get you this time,” Sam declared, rolling up his sleeves to indicate his seriousness. “Just watch.”

“That’s going on the top ten list of ‘ironic sayings before disaster’ right there.” Abigail swung her legs over the couch and stretched, joints popping in several places. Her gaze flitted toward the door when the bell jingled, and her smile widened. “Or,” she said, smirking, “you could employ him for a distraction to secure your victory.”

Sebastian cocked his head back to look over his shoulder. Through the swaths of locals dancing to the tunes belted out from the jukebox, a tall man strode toward the counter, his gait awkward but upright. The metal slats of his leg brace caught in the dimmed lighting. He smiled at Gus, typed something on his phone, and was rewarded with four mugs filled with different drinks filled to their brims. His gaze locked with Sebastian’s, and his eyes crinkled with a grin, a slight rosy tint embellishing his cheeks.

“Stare any harder and I think you’ll turn him into a painting or something.” Abigail nudged Sebastian with her elbow. He sputtered and she snickered before waving, “Over here, Sunny! We’re about to watch history happen with Sam’s first-ever actual victory at the pool table. He might need your help, though.”

“Hey, hey. Lying’s bad.” Sam tsk’d and waggled his forefinger. “I’ve won at least a few times, haven’t I?”

“Maybe in your dreams,” Sebastian replied, taking one of the mugs from Sunny’s hands. He allowed their fingertips to brush “on accident,” relishing in the mushy shyness overcoming Sunny’s face. He took a sip and licked his lips. “So what, you gonna tag-team with Sam and help him win? He could use all the assistance he could get.”

Sunny hesitated, looking from Sebastian to Sam and back again, before making the smartest choice and going over to Abigail, who awaited him by the arcade machine. Sam let out a whine of dismay before joining the group’s laughing fit. Some other day he would win, perhaps, but not today. Or any other Friday in the foreseeable future.

The evening waned toward closing time, passed by the clacking of resin and the beep-boops of old school video games. Sebastian indulged in a few more drinks, which, combined with his tiredness, allowed for some sloppy shots. Sam tried to regain lost ground, but, in sharing the same debuffs, couldn’t quite pull off a win, after all. Sebastian’s undisputed reign as pool king remained as solid as ever by the last call.

“We got so close to the last level.” Abigail pouted at the “Game Over” screen and reached up to press her knuckles lightly into Sunny’s shoulder. “We’ll get ‘em yet, kid. Between you and me, we’re a dream team of video game machines. That rhyme sounded better in my head, don’t judge me. But I’ve manipulated enough of your time tonight,” she added, none too subtly and raising her voice to ensure Sebastian heard, “as I’m sure you wanna spend some time with you know who before the night’s done.”

She waggled her eyebrows and Sunny held up his hands, flustered. To think Sebastian could reduce someone into such a state. The thought brought a renewed wave of giddiness. He cleared the pool table and meandered over to Sunny’s side before discreetly snatching his hand. It may or may not have been sweatier than usual. Yoba take him, he would never quite get used to this.

“I’ll walk you home,” he said, to which Sunny nodded enthusiastically. Abigail and Sam shared a look, which Sebastian elected to ignore. “You all game for a session tomorrow afternoon? I’m thinking GERPS. Been a minute since we did anything sci-fi.”

“Dude, you know I love me some GERPS. Count me in.” Sam pounded his own chest, although maybe with a little too much force as he winced upon impact. “I’ll bring the cola. My fairest queen,” he bowed, “may I bother you to bring forth the divine chips and dips your lands are ever so known for?”

Abigail tittered and brought her hand to her chin, eyes closed in an acted moment of pondering. “Why, I mayhap indeed bring forth with me the esteemed cuisine of mine own homeland. Never before has such a castle boasted a wondrous boon of fried delicacies with divine sprinklings! ‘Tis nary an inconvenience for me to traverse the hills and dales to the deepest dungeon for our devouring pleasure. Even the cave troll who lingers within praises its immaculate flavor.”

“You know what? You two are banned from ever coming to my house again.” Despite himself, Sebastian grinned at their idiotic antics. “Six sound good?”

Sam gave a thumbs’ up while Abigail nodded. She pushed Sebastian on the square of his back. “We’ll text you later,” she said, urging him toward the saloon’s door, “go walk your man home before he collapses from inexplicable onset exhaustion as he does by two in the morning. He’s got sheep to feed.”

“It’s barely eleven.”

“Yeah, and we know you two won’t be getting ready for bed when you get there,” Sam goaded. Sebastian rolled his eyes and glanced at Sunny, who clammed up and averted his stare. Well, that got the cogs whirring. “See you tomorrow, man. Have a great night.”

Sunny’s text-to-speech app garbled out an emotionless GOOD NIGHT, completely contrasting his absolute nervousness. By the time they stepped outside, greeting the cool spring air and the overhead stars, he let out a shaky wheeze, hands resting on his knees. Sebastian waited for him to recover for a few moments, heart slamming against his own ribcage in anticipation. Sure, they’ve shared a few kisses here and there, and they’ve been dating more or less for several months now, but nothing further.

Not that Sebastian didn’t think about it. A lot. Maybe too much.

Sunny lifted his head and his hands after an unbearable handful of seconds:

[YOU WANT STAY NIGHT?]

The invitation turned Sebastian’s insides to goop. He let out a breathless laugh and grasped Sunny’s hand, sweatier than ever, before giving a wordless nod. Sunny swallowed hard and gave a shy, reassuring smile, fingers intertwining with Sebastian’s and pulling him along the well-worn path back to the farm. Neither said anything further, both locked in their own thoughts about what may happen once they got there.

Which was to feed an annoyed Rascal who awaited them at the front door, tail flicking to and fro in impatience. Sunny gave the cat a few apology pets before filling the food bowl with fresh kibble, promptly devoured in a matter of seconds. Nope, Rascal wasn’t literally spoiled at all. Sebastian smiled. He could come home to this every day and not get sick of it, the domesticity of it all. As if he belonged here, as if he should be privy to Sunny’s quiet moments between the hectic farm life and being everyone’s errand boy.

He took a step forward, and wrapped his arms around Sunny’s waist. He buried his face into the small of Sunny’s back and took a deep breath.

“I love you,” he whispered. And it was true; everything about him, from his hurts to his joys, all that encompassed and made Sunny, Sunny. Battered and bruised from life itself, he still stood here, walking forward toward tomorrows together.

Sunny’s hands dwarfed over Sebastian’s own, thumb running along the knuckles. The silence spoke volumes where he could not: I love you, too. Then he tugged on Sebastian’s sleeve, coaxing, and turned around to face him. He swept a thumb along Sebastian’s cheek, then pecked a quick, small kiss upon his lips. He tugged again, taking care to step backwards with his cruxed leg, and a renewed sense of want and uncertain energy sparked in them both.

In the distance, a frog sang its sweet serenade to the full moon overhead.

*

Farmers woke up at absurd times in the morning. Deep down, Sebastian knew this, but apparently he didn’t understand it to its full comprehension. He woke alone, the imprint of Sunny’s form long-since cooled from his extended absence. Sebastian grunted, body aching, and buried himself into the too many pillows. The rooster could go screw itself. In fact, all of daylight could. He would forever be a creature of the night.

Still. He squinted at the clock - what, all of six in the morning? - and yawned, forcing himself to sit up. It wasn’t fair Sunny had to get going so early. He stretched, then picked up his discarded clothes piled on the floor. If it were any other guy, he would’ve asked for a spare change, but Sunny’s absurd height meant he would swim in anything in his wardrobe. Oh well. Not like anyone had ever seen him disheveled and completely unattractive before. He padded out of the bedroom, scratching the back of his head, and made like a zombie to the kitchen in hopes of coffee.

He flicked on the coffee machine right before a familiar sound reached his ears. He tilted his head, listening - a bow gliding cross strings, testing the tuning. A violin.

He paused, then shuffled out toward the front porch. Outside, the morning sun caught the drips of water on the leaves of growing crops, the sprinklers having done their job for the day. Sheep perused the tall grass, dotting the overly green landscape with fluffy patches of white. A gentle breeze shook the tree branches, rustling the leaves overhead. To his right stood Sunny, a glean of hard work’s sweat clinging to his forehead, violin propped on his shoulder - and subsequently set aside upon seeing Sebastian.

[GOOD MORNING.] He smiled and did a little wave. Sebastian’s heart swelled, and matched Sunny’s cheer despite how tired he still felt.

“Hey,” he replied, eying Sunny’s leg. The physical therapy was still nowhere near finished, but at least with the brace he could stand for extended periods. “How’re you feeling?”

[GREAT.] Sunny let out a gravelly laugh, rubbing at a red spot making itself home on his neck. [YOU?]

“Ask me again after I’ve had my first cup,” he replied, then gestured to the violin. He lowered his voice. “Practicing?”

Sunny nodded. [MISSED. THERAPIST SAID GOOD RELEASE. AGREED. PLAY OFTEN NOW.]

Once a musician, always a musician. Sebastian understood how it felt in the bouts between losing motivation to play piano. It itched at him, constantly, begging for him to let his soul loose upon the keyboard. For Sunny, the stretch seemed much longer, but it was good to see him reclaiming his passion for it. Sebastian decided to take the porch chair and relax. The brew wouldn’t be done for a few more minutes yet. “Mind if I listen for a bit?”

A twinkle caught in Sunny’s eyes, accompanied by an affirmative nod. He leaned over and picked up the violin and its bow, and, after getting into position, closed his eyes. The world held its collective breath, a hush sweeping over the farm. Sebastian leaned forward, resting his head upon his chin, and closed his own.

The notes caught whispers of Sunny’s voice, embedded in the long trills and the quickened chords, a melody of a carefully kept love for a world once thought lost to the clutches of despair. It was still tentative, and not quite brave enough to accept everything, and struggled against the weight of a past that could never quite be forgotten. But Sunny sang regardless, in the face of the spring sun, beneath a sky of endless blue, before a tended field once rotted to time and lost hopes now reborn anew. To todays, and tomorrows, imperfect as they may be.

Sebastian inhaled slowly, and exhaled a quiet hum to sing along with him, echoing each other across the reclaimed sounds of silence.

*** 

someday I’ll find my way home

the trees and the wind will lead the way

all of these years on my own

they flew right by, so what can you say?

there’s no need to be scared -

you’re on a path, and you know where it heads.

there’s no need to despair -

just walk on, and you’ll find you are there.

- Carole & Tuesday, “Someday I’ll Find My Way Home”

-FIN-