george's cat cafe

New York City was as terrifying as it was large. Which means very. Floris, luckily, knew the city well, and he led Nick past block after block to their hotel.

“Don’t people normally take a cab?” Nick asked once they had their bags set down on their respective beds. “Like… that’s an NYC staple?”

“I’m a native,” Floris replied, distracted as he dug through his suitcase. He grinned when he pulled out a hoodie. “I forgot how cold it was here, even in the spring.”

“Is it?” Nick asked, only wearing a t-shirt and sweatpants. “I thought it was nice.”

“It is nice,” Floris agreed, even as he tugged the hoodie on over his head, “but I get the chills when I’m here. Can’t help it.”

“So is it cold or not?”

“Yes,” Floris said, talking his bag off the bed and setting it on the floor. “Anyway, get your nap in, your jet-lag settled; I’m giving you a full tour of the Big Apple before dinner.” He settled atop his bed, arms stretched behind his head, and Nick made a face at the shoes touching the covers.

“Seriously, man?” he asked. “Shoes in the bed?”

“Not in the bed,” Floris replied smartly. “On the bed.”

Nick made another face, but didn’t argue.

His nap was poor, tossing and turning, never properly falling asleep, while Floris snored on, feet kicking and fingers twitching. Nick wished he slept as good as the other. But instead he ended up staring at the ceiling, waiting for the other to wake and take him on this tour.

When Floris did wake, he looked refreshed, and he pranced around the room getting everything he needed (which was apparently just some cash, an umbrella, and a change of shoes, except he went into the bathroom to change them, which Nick thought was weird, but he didn’t comment on because he just wanted to get out of the stifling hotel room). By the time Floris came out, Nick was standing by the door, hands shoved in his pockets to keep them from moving restlessly.

“Ready?” he asked.

“I’ve been ready,” Floris replied, allowing Nick to pull the door open and letting it fall shut behind him.

They made their way down to the lobby, where it was clear it was a new shift, a new receptionist sitting at the desk. Nick wondered what went through the man’s head, with the way he fixed a piercing stare on them. Floris didn’t seem to notice the stare, however, as he kept on his merry way, beginning to talk about all the things New York had to offer. Nick couldn’t help but glance over his shoulder one last time, though, before they exited the building, catching the eyes of the receptionist. A chill went down Nick’s spine. Quickly, he turned away and hurried to follow Floris as he began to walk down the street.

“Obviously we can’t see everything, and we definitely can’t do it all tonight,” Floris was saying when Nick focused on him once again, “but we can just walk around for now, and I can give general directions. Also, I personally am not a fan of the subway, but you can go on it.”

“I,” Nick looked around, “don’t need to go on the subway. Are you sure about the cab thing?”

“Does it matter?” Floris asked.

Nick guessed it didn’t. 

Floris was an alright tour guide, if you overlooked the fact that he didn’t say much about any actual landmarks or places you’d find in a NYC guidebook. Nick wondered if that made him a better tour guide or not. They stopped at a nondescript deli and had sandwiches and soda for dinner. Nick stared as Floris happily ate a veggie sub, tomato juice spilling down his chin.

“Is that actually any good?” he asked. “It’s like… salad between bread.”

“It’s good,” Floris reassured. “Is yours good?”

“Duh,” Nick replied.

When they got back to the hotel, the receptionist wasn’t there, but Nick swore he could still feel those eyes on his back. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up as he and Floris got in the elevator, heading up to the fifth floor.

“That receptionist from before,” Nick said when the doors slid shut, “did you see how he was looking at us?”

“The receptionist?” Floris echoed, thinking. “No. Why? Was he looking at you weird or something?”

Nick frowned, but he shook his head. The guy probably just had a staring problem, or maybe he thought Nick’s t-shirt was stupid or something. He ignored that feeling in him saying that not telling Floris was a bad idea. Besides, if Floris didn’t care, it probably was fine, right?

The doors slid open and Floris led them back to the room. Nick flopped onto his bed, now properly ready to sleep.

“I hate walking,” he said. “My legs hurt.”

“Sleep it off,” Floris replied, disappearing into the bathroom. He stuck his head out. “Might go downstairs to get more of that fresh air. Is that okay?”

“You’re really weird,” Nick answered.

Floris smiled before his head went back through the doorway. Nick never saw him leave, eyes slipping shut, breath going even, sleep overtaking him.

He was back in the hotel lobby. Nick looked around, for the receptionist, for Floris, but it was just him. He took a seat on the bench. 

“You’re late.”

Nick jumped, and when he turned, a woman sat, one of those small, yappy dogs held in a purse on her lap. When Nick waved at it, it growled and spat. He made a face. “Nice dog,” he said.

“What dog?” the woman asked.

Nick looked at her before pointing. “The one in your purse.”

“I don’t have a dog,” she replied.

Nick looked to her lap once again. There was no purse, no dog.

He stood. “Um, my bad.”

“Are you okay?” the woman asked.

“Fine,” Nick snapped, irritation culminating under his skin. “Who are you again?”

“Did you forget me already?” she stood too. In her seat sat that dog in the purse. Nick stared at it, and again, it growled. Nick looked at the woman. “It’s rude to forget people, you know. Fills people with a certain rage; you’ve felt rage before, haven’t you?”

“Not because someone’s forgotten my name,” Nick answered.

“So you’ve felt rage,” she continued, “and what did it do to you? Did you feel rage when they took your mother? Did you feel rage when that new woman came to replace her?”

Nick took a step back as the woman took a step closer.

“Hot and burning inside you, you scream and no one hears, what a weak little boy you were.” She laughs, and it’s a witch’s cackle, high-pitched and grating. Nick stumbles as something nips at the backs of his heels. The little dog, eyes rimmed red and crusty. It’s teeth trying to cut through his pants.

“Your dog,” he said, trying to kick it away from him, “make it stop.”

“Isn’t it cute?” she asked.

“You said you didn’t have a dog.” Nick managed to send him flying off, claws skidding on the polished tile. It ran back towards him.

“I don’t,” she replied. “Are you sure you’re okay? You keep doing something strange with your legs.”

The stupid dog was gone, and Nick was kicking and tripping on air. He cursed. “What’s up with you, lady? Seriously, you’re freaking weird.”

“Am I?” she asked. “I’m sure you know all about weirdness. Your friend, for instance, weirdest of all. Though he pales in comparison to you.”

“Floris?” Nick screeched when that stupid dog bit at his ankle, sweatpants now basketball shorts, ankles exposed perfectly for the dog to sink its teeth into. “Get your dog!”

“Yes. Floris. Forgot.”

“It’s rude to forget people’s names,” Nick echoed back to her.

The woman smiled, showing teeth tipped in red. Nick choked on a breath. “You’re absolutely right.” She snapped her fingers, and the dog was back at her side, yipping and yapping at her to pick it up. When she did, she stroked a calming hand down its back. It looked at Nick, and that’s when he realized there was foam around its mouth. His own mouth dropped open in horror.

“Who are you?” he demanded. “Am I going to die?”

“This is a dream, stupid boy,” she answered. “And if you don’t remember me,” she laughed, that same spine-tingling cackle, “you’ll figure out who I am soon enough.” A sudden shriek pierced through the air, and Nick stood at attention, eyes wide and heart pounding. The woman’s smile stretched to a grin, those red-tipped teeth glinting in the bright lobby lights. “Best wake up now; you don’t want to be late again.”

Nick’s eyes blinked open. He was in the hotel room, in bed. He shoved the covers off him and hurried to put his shoes on. Everything in him screamed to go find Floris. Without a single look back, he flung the hotel door open and ran.

He avoided the elevator, fearing it would take too long, instead finding the door to the staircase and prying it open, the metal heavy but not enough to stop him. It’s cool where it is pressed to his skin. He rushed down the stairs.

The closer he got to the first floor, the louder the noises that come from the lobby were. Nick sped up as much as he could without tripping. 

“Floris!” he shouted, unsure if the other could even hear him. He was breathless and panting by the time he reached the first floor but he shoved it open, the metal bar digging uncomfortably into his skin.

“Nick!” Floris shrieked. “Watch out!”

Nick moved out of the way just in time to miss a barrage of spines being flung at him. He sucked in a breath. “What—”

“Move!” Floris screamed, and Nick obeyed, dropping to the floor when a large paw came at him, claws extended. When Nick looked, he saw Floris’s hoodie had been torn in multiple places, hanging off his body loosely, in tatters. Nick took in another breath.

“How are you still alive?” he asked, crying out when more spines came at him.

“Who is this, Floris?” the monster growled. “You’ve brought another course? How delicious!” His lips curled into a treacherous grin, and when he spoke, his breath came out and hit Nick straight in the face, rancid.

Nick gagged against the smell, trying his best to get over to his friend.

“We need to,” he stuttered, “I can’t—fire, I can’t—”

“You have to,” Fundy replied. Nick shoved him and dropped to the floor when the monster ran out them, rolling under the massive body. (The mom lifting the bus for her baby.) His heart pounded. Floris had crawled behind the receptionist’s desk. His head poked up over the top. “You have to, Nick!”

“I’ll burn this place down!” Nick shouted. “I can’t—”

“But you have to!” the monster mocked. “You have to! You have to!”

Nick bared his teeth, anger beginning to boil his blood. “Yeah!” he replied. “And you have to die!” That was the only way—this thing was an abomination, the head of a man, the body of a lion, spines shooting from its tail with a single flick, leaving Nick dodging and ducking like nobody’s business. 

Without fire, he was left defenseless, left to tire out the monster, but he knew it’s a lot more likely it’ll tire him out instead. Floris ran at him, then, and tackled him, sending the two of them through the sliding front doors. Even at night, the streets of New York City were bustling.

Floris grabbed him by the arm and took off, tugging Nick through the crowd. “This was a bad idea,” Nick just barely heard over the sounds of traffic.

When Nick turned back, the crowd was parted like the red sea, and charging right at them, the monster.

“A manticore,” Floris said, “one of the deadliest monsters out there. Just our luck.”

“I don’t want to burn down New York,” Nick replied.

“I know,” Floris tugged them down an alleyway.

“If he catches us, we’re dead,” Nick realized.

Floris looked at him. “So we can’t let him catch us.” He leapt onto a dumpster, and Nick was left to hurry after him. Floris scaled the building like nobody’s business. Below, the manticore shrieked and yowled as Nick climbed up as quickly as he could after his friend.

“How can you,” Nick sucked in a breath, “climb so fast? I thought you had,” another breath, “some kind of leg issue.”

Floris’s foot slipped. Nick yelled. Off came Floris shoe—foot—what? Nick stared at the hoof waving in his face. 

“Come on!” Floris cried. “I’ll explain later!”

Then, Nick felt the back of his sweatpants rip straight down the middle, and pain flared hot and heady in his left leg. Shock flooded his body. He doesn’t know if he screamed. But he did know what he had to do.

Floris was already near the top of the building. 

Nick climbed.

When he reached the top, Floris was waiting for him, arm outstretched to pull him up. Nick accepted it. Together, they ran, uncaring of the manticore they both knew continued to climb up after them.

Salt from his tears and wind stung in the corners of his eyes. He grit his teeth as he followed Floris across rooftops, biting back a pained groan every time his injured leg met the ground. Behind them, the manticore followed, chasing after them on all fours, calling to them, taunting them. Nick took a deep breath, preparing himself for the next jump.

“There’s somewhere you can go,” Floris said, his remaining ‘shoe’ left behind two buildings ago, hooves now carrying him easily. “It’s safer—monsters, like the one chasing us, they can’t get in.”

Nick looked at him before Floris stretched out an arm to stop him from falling off the edge of the roof. “Seriously?”

Floris nodded, then dropped his arm. Nick backed up then got a running start, stretching his legs as best he can as he jumped to the next roof. Floris followed not long after. And the manticore not long after that. Nick cried, genuine crying, not tears from the winds that whipped around them, as he reached the edge of another roof. The next building was across the street.

Nick turned to Floris.

“We won’t make it,” he said. “We won’t make it.”

Floris came by his house again the next day. Nick stared at him as he stood in the doorway. “School’s cancelled indefinitely,” Floris told him. “They said they’ll work on rebuilding as soon as they can, but while we still don’t have a physical school, we get summer break early.”

“Happy birthday to me,” Nick replied, though there was no mirth in his voice.

Floris smiled anyway before his eyes got all shifty, and he leaned forward, as if looking for something. “Are your parents home?” Nick wondered if Floris knew about his situation. He knew about Nick’s mom; or, at least, Nick assumed he somehow did. It wouldn’t surprise him that he knew about the rest of his living arrangement, either.

“I managed to get taken away by a deranged cop the day they left for their anniversary,” he answered. “And they aren’t putting that on hold for me.” His younger sisters—homeschooled, lucky them—were sent to their grandparents last week. The only reason Nick didn’t go was because he was old enough to handle himself. Or so he thought. “I’m home alone.”

“Nice,” Floris hummed, hand settling on the doorframe thoughtfully. “So about yesterday….”

Nick held up a hand, wincing as a headache bloomed behind his eyes. “I really don’t want to talk more about it.”

Floris made a face, but Nick was being honest. The whole ordeal just made him feel sick. “It’s good to—”

“Talk things out, I know,” NIck replies, “so you said. But, look, man, that was really traumatic, okay? And I think I hit my head too hard on the door because I was seeing things, and it was just really scary. I don’t want to think about it anymore.”

Floris studied him, gaze intense, and Nick straightened up under it, shoulders moving back and chest puffing up slightly. It wasn’t an intimidating look, but there was something… unnerving about it. He felt he had to prove something. Finally, Floris sighed. “It’s probably for the better for once. Just… if something like that happens again, you should take this.” He held out a small card, and when Nick took it, he realized it was a business card.

“Call me, okay?” Floris asked. “Don’t be a stranger.”

Nick stared at the card for another second before looking back up at the other. “Okay,” he agreed. “I’ll call.”

Floris gave him a final smile before pivoting on his heel. He was about to walk off when he spun back around. “Oh, uh, I made these for you.” He held out a baggie filled with what looked like lemon bars. “I don’t recommend eating them all at once. I’ve found they’re pretty good for when you need comfort food, or, like… healing. Or something.”

Nick accepted the bag. “Uh-huh. Thanks.”

“Yeah,” Floris said, before smiling for the last time for real and turning, heading down the walkway and taking off down the road.

Nick looked back down at the lemon bars. They weren’t his favorite. He definitely wasn't going to eat them all at once. Dumb of Floris to even tell him that.

He went about his routine like usual, now that school was out of the picture. It was a bit weird actually, sitting down to a day of mindless video games with no guilt, no homework to turn in or tests to study for. (Granted, most of his homework was left incomplete, and most tests were taken with no studying involved prior. Not that Nick was a dumb kid, school just… wasn’t for him. In case you couldn’t tell by the whole burning it down thing. Not that he meant to do that. Just to be clear. In case you missed that fact.) Nick sunk deeper into his beanbag chair, fingers flying across his Xbox controller as he focused on the small TV in his room. He wondered if his parents knew about his early summer already.

Probably not.

He played until the Sun went down, only stopping to pee or get food, and his routine looked very much like that for the next three days until his parents returned, and he found himself thrown into the monotony of chores and errands. It was preferable to reading-induced migraines, but he also missed the break from home school provided. The town he lived in on the edge of Houston was easy enough to navigate on foot, and his dad had started to give him driving lessons, but the lessons had to be put on hold for work, and walking around the city was a lot less fun when there was no one else to walk with.

The business card he’d taken to keeping in his pants’ pocket ever since Floris gave it to him seemed to become a paperweight then. Nick pulled it out.

Floris Larkspur Keeper Half-Blood Hill Long Island, New York (800) 009-0009

The information on it was terrible to read, in some fancy, looping font, but Nick understood it well enough once he squinted for a while. He frowned at the address and phone number. The number was obviously toll-free, meant more for business rather than personal use, and the location itself… New York? Nick frowned before returning the card to his pocket.

He’d have better luck running into Floris in the grocery store. Besides, the only bit of info on the card that didn’t leave him more confused than how he started was Floris’s name. Nick bit the inside of his cheek. Maybe Floris wasn’t the best person to walk around the city with.

Nick sighed, wondering if his stepmom would maybe send him on a grocery run. He was surprised when he walked into the living room to see his parents sitting on the couch, staring at him expectantly.

“Is something wrong?” he asked. “I didn’t mean to burn down the school. I promise.”

His stepmom rose from her place on the couch. “We believe you,” she said, hand coming to rest on his shoulder. His heart pounded as his gaze dropped to her hand. “You aren’t in trouble. Actually, the opposite.”

He stared at her before turning to his stepdad.

“Your birthday, Nick,” he said.

His birthday. He completely forgot about it. He looked at his stepmom.

“We’re sorry we weren’t here to celebrate with you,” she told him. “That was our fault. So we did something extra special for you.”

“You didn’t miss much,” Nick replied, even as she guided him over to the couch where his stepdad opened his laptop.

“With no school,” his stepmom said, “we figured it would be okay if spring break came early.”

And there, right on his dad’s laptop screen, a ticket to New York City.

Nick’s eyes turned to saucers as he stared between his parents, gaze going from his stepdad, back to his stepmom, then vice versa. “You’re kidding,” he breathed.

“Your flight goes out in two days,” his dad said. “A week there and straight back.”

“By myself?” Nick asked, hardly believing his luck.

“You’re sixteen,” his dad replied, even as his stepmom made a face.

“We have a second ticket,” she explained. “We can resell it, but… if you wanted to take a friend—a responsible one.”

Nick didn’t have many friends. Constantly switching schools did that to a kid. He stared blankly at his stepmom, who offered him a tentative smile in return. He tried to give one back, but his mind was reeling, wondering who to invite—if they’d really let him go on his own or not.

“Y’know,” his dad started, “there’s this one kid I’ve run into a couple times, at the gas station, the store, kind of funny looking, ginger, always asks after you.”

Oh, God. “That’s,” Nick hid his face in his hands, humiliation rising in his throat, “Floris.”

“A friend?” his stepmom asked, hopeful.

Nick nodded.

“Perfect!” she exclaimed, clapping her hands together. “And clearly he cares about you. I think that’s a good one to take.”

“Mom,” he said, even as the name tasted bitter on his tongue, knowing his actual mom was still out there, “no. There’s got to be someone else—or I could go on my own, right? Right, Dad?”

His stepdad said nothing. So that was just a fib, then. Nick’s face fell.

“I think Floris would be good,” she urged. “You don’t have to spend every second together.”

“But you’ll want us to,” he argued.

“I just want you safe,” she said, “and I know your dad wants the same.”

Nick made a face.

Finally, she made one too, expression souring. “Nick, we just want to do something nice for you—for once. Can’t you just accept it?”

“I,” Nick made a frustrated noise deep in his throat, “why now? You’ve never cared. Is it because I almost went to prison?” He looks to his stepdad. “Do you feel guilty or something? That you couldn’t stop them from taking me, just like you couldn’t stop them from taking Mom—my real mom,” he added quickly, unable to stop the glare he shot at his stepmom, polite as she may be.

Her hand flew to her chest, as if stung, and his stepdad sat up, brows furrowing, lips downturned in a severe frown. “Nick Pappas, don’t you dare talk to us like that,” he scolded.

“Or what?” Nick snapped. “You going to kick me out? I bet you’d love that! You wouldn’t have to look for a new school anymore; you wouldn’t have to look at me and be reminded of her. You’d love that, wouldn’t you?”

“What’s gotten into you?” his stepmom cried. “You’re never like this!”

“I’m just tired!” Nick shoved himself up off the couch. “Thanks for the trip, but oh my God, just leave me alone—please!” He stormed into his room and slammed the door shut, pressing his back against it and immediately pressing his face into his hands.

He almost died Friday, and they didn’t care. Of course they didn’t care! And now they wanted to act nice, and he was supposed to just accept it? Without a modicum of suspicion? It was so not fair. He brought his legs to his chest, hands sliding from his face and elbows resting on the tops of his knees. He buried his head in his arms. None of this was fair.

What felt like an hour but was probably just ten minutes later, a soft knock at the door startled him into lifting his head. He scooted away from the door, and it opened slowly. In the doorway stood his stepmom. Nick bit back a groan.

“What,” he said.

The petite woman lowered herself to the floor, closing the door behind herself and taking a seat across from him. “I’m sorry I’m not her,” she replied.

Nick glared at her crossed legs.

“I mean it,” she promised. “I’ve never tried to be her—”

“You wouldn’t want to be her,” Nick grumbled.

His stepmom paused before a hand came to rest on his knee. “I never met her, but if she was anything like you, she couldn’t be bad.”

“You’re just saying that.” Nick’s glare strengthened. “I can’t stay at one school; I’m always setting things on fire; I almost went to prison just last week. I’m a terrible son.”

She didn’t say anything to that. 

Nick flattened his lips. 

“I’m sorry,” she finally said. “We’re… not good parents. I never wanted to be a parent. I am now, and I wouldn’t change it, but I’m not your mom, even with you calling me that, and I don’t want to replace her. And I could never be her because I know how much she meant to you, and I couldn’t do for you what she did.”

“You don’t even know what she did,” Nick snapped.

His stepmom sighed. “Can you please just accept this? I had to talk your dad into keeping the tickets after what you said.”

“You should have let him sell them,” Nick replied. “I deserve it.”

“No, you don’t.” She patted his knee. “You’re right. You did almost go to prison—you wouldn’t have deserved it, though. I think wrongful imprisonment deserves a trip to New York.”

Nick allowed a laugh to fall past his lips, bitter.

His stepmom took it. “Your flight leaves in two days. Tell your friend to come with you. You’ve got a whole week to run around NYC like the teenager you are. Have fun.” She gave a gentle shove to his shoulder. Nick rocked with the motion. “Okay?”

Nick stared at the floor.

“Okay?” she repeated.

He nodded.

“Good.” She pushed herself from the floor, running her fingers lightly through his hair before leaving, closing the door softly behind her. Nick squeezed his eyes shut, letting out a shaky breath.

Have fun. He can do that.

When he finally hunted Floris down at the grocery store the next day, he told him about the trip. “It’s short notice,” he apologized, “but it’s a week.”

“New York?” Floris asked. Nick felt like if the ginger had a tail, it’d be wagging.

“Yeah,” he replied. “A week and then we come home.”

“Got it, captain,” Floris said. “I’ll pack my bags tonight and meet you at your house bright and early tomorrow morning.”

“The flight doesn’t leave until noon.” Nick frowned.

“I like being prepared,” Floris replied. “Are you ready?”

“More or less,” Nick nodded, “not like I own much anyway.”

Floris stared at him, eyes narrowed, before nodding also. “See you tomorrow then.”

Despite what the papers said, Nick didn’t mean to burn down his school. The only reason he wasn’t going to prison was because no one died and the police couldn’t find any solid evidence that it was his fault. That is, other than the fact that when the building stopped burning, there was just him standing in its charred remains, not a single hair on his head harmed. But seriously, he didn’t mean to burn down his school. Yeah, he hated sitting through English as much as the next kid, but he didn’t hate it enough to commit arson.

Not to mention he was turning sixteen in three days. Why would he actively try and get into trouble three days before his birthday?

But that wasn’t really a new problem. The burning, that is. Maybe on a grander scale this time—he’d never burnt down a whole building before—but he’d always had an unlucky relationship with fire. Or, his mom would call it lucky, if you overlooked the whole I burn everything I touch thing. She used to just laugh at the soot sprinkled across the living room carpet and run her fingers through his hair, telling him to only play with fire if he knows he won’t get burned. (And he’s never gotten burned.)

The last time he saw her, she was staring at him through the back window of a police car.

After that, it was like she was never there. Nick still thought about her, though, when his stepdad, a rigid, heavyset man, kissed his new wife on the cheek and patted Nick on the head like he’s still five and not fifteen-and-eleven-months, and he thought about her when it was his turn to stare at his family through the back window of a police car.

It was just a single policeman, polite and unassuming as he explained the full situation to Nick’s parents, and his parents just wanted to get this out of the way, so when the cop told Nick to get in the car, they didn’t protest, and Nick took his seat, the window cool under his palms as he watched his stepdad and stepmom get smaller and smaller.

“I really didn’t mean to do it,” Nick finally said, turning back to the officer.

“I know, son,” the cop in the front seat replied.

“Then why are you taking me?” he asked.

The cop didn’t reply.

Nick turned back to the window, watching building after building pass by. He tried to read some of the signs, but the letters got all jumbled up, and eventually, he just sighed, closing his eyes and resting his forehead on the window, pretending that the vibrations of it didn’t bother him. By the time he bothered sitting up again, the bustling city had disappeared and field after field stretched endlessly around them. Nick curled a hand around the seatbelt pressing into his chest.

“Where are we going?”

Again, the cop didn’t reply.

Nick tugged at the seatbelt. “Can I not ask questions anymore?” He tried to open the door, but it was pointless. The thing was locked, and every time he tried to undo the lock, it would pop right back into place. NIck turned back to the cop. “Look, man, I really didn’t mean to do it, and if you believe me, that’s great, so I don’t know why you still want me here. If you just let me go home—”

“That’s enough, Nick Pappas,” the cop finally snapped, and Nick’s eyes widened at the sound. His voice was raspy, and he pronounced his ‘s’s weird. “Be a good kid and sit quietly.”

“I just want to know where you’re taking me!” Nick banged his fist on the window, only wincing for the shortest second when it sent a tingle back up his arm.

“I said enough!” And then the car was veering off the road, Nick was flung into the window, seatbelt digging painfully into his chest and waist, ears ringing from hitting his head on the glass, and the cop was twisting out of his seat, stretching out over him, hat falling aside to reveal long hair, lips parting to reveal sharp, glistening fangs.

Nick scrambled back as far as he could, seatbelt constricting his movements. “I don’t want trouble! What is wrong with you?” He kicked at the cop, letting out a strangled gasp when his foot met soft flesh and not hard muscle. “You’re not even a guy!”

“And you are no uselesssss mortal either!” the cop hissed, grinning even as its fangs pop, terrifying and fascinating all at—the cop sprung forward, and nope, just terrifying, not even close to fascinating.

Nick was never particularly flexible, but one time he heard about a bus flipping over with a kid inside it and the kid’s mom pushed the bus back over all on her own in some crazy fit of adrenaline. He had the hazy thought that something similar might be happening then as his foot makes contact with the cop’s face and the fangs dig into the sole of his shoe instead of his face. In the seconds he had to spare, Nick quickly undid his seatbelt, flailing as the cop grabbed at his shoe and pulled, throwing off his balance. The satisfaction of smacking it in the head was small in comparison to the fear that welled when he saw rage flicker in its eyes.

“I don’t even know what you are!” he choked out when the cop-not-cop made another pass at him. “Let me go!” With each word he aimed another kick at its head, but most of his kicks missed, and dread continued to fill him up as all his pathetic fighting did was enrage the thing.

“You ssssstupid boy!” the maybe-cop-probably-not seethed. “I am Sssssandra the Sssssupreme! One of the mossst powerful dracaena in the mortal world right now!”

The information meant nothing to Nick. He finally landed a kick on the center of her chest, sending her back into the front seat as he worked furiously at getting the door open. “Okay! And I’m Nick Pappas and you really don’t want to hurt me!”

“Oh, but I do!” Sandra hissed because that’s what she was doing, no way else to describe it. “Your death would be sssssplendid for me!”

“Not for me, though!” Nick argued, screeching when rough hands grabbed at his waist and fangs were once again in his line of sight. “Let me out!”

He banged against the door some more before turning back to the—what’d she say?— dracaena, heart pounding as nails dug into his waist and fangs filled his vision. He swallowed, wondering if it would be better or not to look death in the face before deciding it’d be worse, a lot worse, and squeezed his eyes shut.

Nick was mentally preparing himself for the end, when there was a muffled noise from outside the car, and then the shattering of glass. His eyes flew open even as shards of glass continued to rain down onto him and the snake lady from the window opposite them. And there, between all those sharp edges, stood a short ginger kid that, had Nick been in a better state of mind, he would remember from his classes. As it was, however, all he saw was his savior, holding a hammer tightly in his hands, cinnamon hair glowing in the fading sunlight, and eyes absolutely filled with terror.

“Are you okay?” the kid shouted as the dracaena screamed above Nick, who did his best to push her off of him and open the door from the outside.

“We have to go!” Nick replied, grabbing the boy by the wrist and running, uncaring of where they went, so long as it was away. “That thing back there is not a cop!”

“You’re right!” the kid agreed, looking quickly over his shoulder before letting out a sharp noise and running faster.

With a bit more space to breathe and think, Nick could finally recall who he was: Floris, who, although they weren’t very close, he sat with more often than not, the dude letting Nick copy his notes and never pressuring him about paying attention in class—except for certain times, like in World History, when they were talking about Greece, and Nick had said his family was from there, and Floris turned to him with wide eyes and asked, “You know?” As if everyone didn’t have at least some clue as to where their family was from. After that, Floris would nudge him every time he started to nod off, pointing to the screen and reminding him to listen to the teacher. It was weird, but he just brushed it off as some ginger thing. Gingers are weird , man.

That seemed truer than ever now, watching Floris run with a hammer and his lopsided gait. “Do you know what that thing was?” Nick asked, shouting over the wind that had picked up in the fields.

“Do you?” Floris replied.

Nick checked over his shoulder. He could still see the car, left behind in a ditch, glass twinkling like stars across the asphalt, and—“You’re about to find out!” He took the hammer from Floris and threw it at the dracaena , cursing when all she did was duck out of the way. It doesn’t even hit one of her tails and oh, wow, she has two tails. The day just kept getting weirder.

“I can’t do this,” he whispered to himself, even as Floris yelled at their lack of a weapon.

“You have to do something!” Floris argued, turning to face him, gripping him by the shoulders and shaking him. “Or she’ll kill us both!”

“I know,” Nick swallowed, his own hands coming up to cover Floris’s, “I know.” He turned back to the dracaena, who continued to approach undeterred. “I can—I have to do this.” He stumbled as she hissed at him, fangs on full display once again. “Um,” he held out his hands in a stop motion, “look—we wouldn’t be better off dead! You want us to live! You really want us to—”

“Nick!” Floris snapped. “What are you doing?”

“Something!” Nick replied. “I’m doing something!”

“That’s not something!” Floris shook. “Doing something is burning down the school because you heard a kid talking bad about your mom—do that again!”

“I didn’t mean to burn down the school!” Nick looked at Floris in desperation, only for the dracaena to reach them, hissing and cursing their names. “I just—I wanted—I didn’t—”

“You are the ssssame as her,” the dracaena’s words became clear now that she was closer, “ssstupid, pathetic, unable to ssssave the one who needssss you most. Prepare to die, Nick Pappssss, son of—”

“Shut up!” Nick shoved at the dracaena, but that wasn’t what got her to stop. His hands were engulfed in flames, pressing into the snake lady’s police uniform, setting the cloth ablaze, sending smoke into the air and forcing a scream out of her throat. He pressed harder into her chest. “Shut up about my mom! You don’t know her! She didn’t do anything wrong! Shut up!”

He held his hands to her chest as she burned, his own chest heaving, lungs working in overtime as his brain attempted to understand everything it just witnessed. Everything it just experienced.

The dracaena’s screaming finally stopped, and then, there was just quiet.

Nick watched as her ash blew away into the wind, sunlight catching it and spinning it into gold. Flames flickered between his fingers before he curled his hands into fists. He turned to Floris. “I don’t know what just happened.”

“You,” Floris said timidly, “just slayed a monster.”

Nick grimaced.

Together, they walked in a tense silence, the sun setting to their right, moon rising to their left, up until Floris cleared his throat.

“What she said, about your mother—”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“It’d be good to, though,” Floris tried. “It’s not good to keep all those things to yourself like that. They eat at you.”

“I think I know what’s eating me and what’s not, thanks.” Nick kicked a pebble, sending it clattering down the road ahead of them. “Talking—feelings talking—isn’t really my thing.”

“Still,” Floris said, “it’s worth a shot.”

Nick frowned, staring out at the open road ahead of them, town still a bit away. “What does it even matter to you?” He looked to the other. “You barely know me. We just sit next to each other in class. Who cares about my mom?”

“You do.” Floris stopped to pick a dandelion from the weeds growing along the road. He held it out to Nick. “And I thought we were friends.”

“We’re not in elementary school,” Nick replied, but he accepted the dandelion anyway. He puckered his lips, blowing out a stream of air and sending the seeds flying. 

“Did you wish for anything?” Floris asked, watching the seeds scatter throughout the sky.

Nick dropped the leftover stem to the ground. “No. And if I had, I wouldn’t tell.” He crushed the stem underfoot. 

They kept walking.

The sun set as they went, making the asphalt beneath their shoes glitter and shine. Not a single car passed, and Nick couldn’t stop the unease that crept up on him as they left the cop car behind them.

“Hey,” Floris said. “It’s fine.”

Nick looked over at him, disbelieving. Though no longer racing, his heart still pounded in his chest, and his limbs felt like jello, loose and clumsy. It was hard to imagine going home and sleeping, like he hadn’t just almost been killed.

“I mean it,” Floris continued. “You won. It won’t be coming back any time soon. You survived.”

Nick nodded. He survived. He’s not dead—he’s breathing in fresh air, listening to the night breeze, watching the streetlights reflect on the road. “It’s just,” he made a vague motion with his hand, “scary.”

With the action, he found himself watching his fingers as they curled and splayed. His hand, which had been encased by fire not long ago, skin unblemished and tan. As if there had never been any fire there in the first place. He let it fall back to his side.

He didn’t want to think about it anymore. He didn’t want to think about it at all.

They continued their walk in silence.

By the time they stopped in front of Nick’s doorstep, the moon was halfway through the sky, and Floris yawned every three seconds next to him. Nick straightened, clearing his throat. “Thanks,” he said. “For earlier. I could’ve died without you.”

Floris studied him. Nick stared back. Eventually, Floris reached a conclusion, whatever it may be, and gave a shrug. “You would’ve done what you had to do eventually.” Nick opened his mouth, but he continued: “I’m happy to help, though. That’s what I’m here for. Seriously.”

Nick frowned as the ginger bid him a cheery goodnight before turning on his heel and leaving, Nick standing alone in the doorway.

Despite what the papers said, Nick didn’t mean to burn down his school. The only reason he wasn’t going to prison was because no one died and the police couldn’t find any solid evidence that it was his fault. That is, other than the fact that when the building stopped burning, there was just him standing in its charred remains, not a single hair on his head harmed. But seriously, he didn’t mean to burn down his school. Yeah, he hated sitting through English as much as the next kid, but he didn’t hate it enough to commit arson.

Not to mention he was turning sixteen in three days. Why would he actively try and get into trouble three days before his birthday?

But that wasn’t really a new problem. The burning, that is. Maybe on a grander scale this time—he’d never burnt down a whole building before—but he’d always had an unlucky relationship with fire. Or, his mom would call it lucky, if you overlooked the whole I burn everything I touch thing. She used to just laugh at the soot sprinkled across the living room carpet and run her fingers through his hair, telling him to only play with fire if he knows he won’t get burned. (And he’s never gotten burned.)

The last time he saw her, she was staring at him through the back window of a police car.

After that, it was like she was never there. Nick still thought about her, though, when his stepdad, a rigid, heavyset man, kissed his new wife on the cheek and patted Nick on the head like he’s still five and not fifteen-and-eleven-months, and he thought about her when it was his turn to stare at his family through the back window of a police car.

It was just a single policeman, polite and unassuming as he explained the full situation to Nick’s parents, and his parents just wanted to get this out of the way, so when the cop told Nick to get in the car, they didn’t protest, and Nick took his seat, the window cool under his palms as he watched his stepdad and stepmom get smaller and smaller.

“I really didn’t mean to do it,” Nick finally said, turning back to the officer.

“I know, son,” the cop in the front seat replied.

“Then why are you taking me?” he asked.

The cop didn’t reply.

Nick turned back to the window, watching building after building pass by. He tried to read some of the signs, but the letters got all jumbled up, and eventually, he just sighed, closing his eyes and resting his forehead on the window, pretending that the vibrations of it didn’t bother him. By the time he bothered sitting up again, the bustling city had disappeared and field after field stretched endlessly around them. Nick curled a hand around the seatbelt pressing into his chest.

“Where are we going?”

Again, the cop didn’t reply.

Nick tugged at the seatbelt. “Can I not ask questions anymore?” He tried to open the door, but it was pointless. The thing was locked, and every time he tried to undo the lock, it would pop right back into place. NIck turned back to the cop. “Look, man, I really didn’t mean to do it, and if you believe me, that’s great, so I don’t know why you still want me here. If you just let me go home—”

“That’s enough, Nick Pappas,” the cop finally snapped, and Nick’s eyes widened at the sound. His voice was raspy, and he pronounced his ‘s’s weird. “Be a good kid and sit quietly.”

“I just want to know where you’re taking me!” Nick banged his fist on the window, only wincing for the shortest second when it sent a tingle back up his arm.

“I said enough!” And then the car was veering off the road, Nick was flung into the window, seatbelt digging painfully into his chest and waist, ears ringing from hitting his head on the glass, and the cop was twisting out of his seat, stretching out over him, hat falling aside to reveal long hair, lips parting to reveal sharp, glistening fangs.

Nick scrambled back as far as he could, seatbelt constricting his movements. “I don’t want trouble! What is wrong with you?” He kicked at the cop, letting out a strangled gasp when his foot met soft flesh and not hard muscle. “You’re not even a guy!”

“And you are no uselesssss mortal either!” the cop hissed, grinning even as its fangs pop, terrifying and fascinating all at—the cop sprung forward, and nope, just terrifying, not even close to fascinating.

Nick was never particularly flexible, but one time he heard about a bus flipping over with a kid inside it and the kid’s mom pushed the bus back over all on her own in some crazy fit of adrenaline. He had the hazy thought that something similar might be happening then as his foot makes contact with the cop’s face and the fangs dig into the sole of his shoe instead of his face. In the seconds he had to spare, Nick quickly undid his seatbelt, flailing as the cop grabbed at his shoe and pulled, throwing off his balance. The satisfaction of smacking it in the head was small in comparison to the fear that welled when he saw rage flicker in its eyes.

“I don’t even know what you are!” he choked out when the cop-not-cop made another pass at him. “Let me go!” With each word he aimed another kick at its head, but most of his kicks missed, and dread continued to fill him up as all his pathetic fighting did was enrage the thing.

“You ssssstupid boy!” the maybe-cop-probably-not seethed. “I am Sssssandra the Sssssupreme! One of the mossst powerful dracaena in the mortal world right now!”

The information meant nothing to Nick. He finally landed a kick on the center of her chest, sending her back into the front seat as he worked furiously at getting the door open. “Okay! And I’m Nick Pappas and you really don’t want to hurt me!”

“Oh, but I do!” Sandra hissed because that’s what she was doing, no way else to describe it. “Your death would be sssssplendid for me!”

“Not for me, though!” Nick argued, screeching when rough hands grabbed at his waist and fangs were once again in his line of sight. “Let me out!”

He banged against the door some more before turning back to the—what’d she say?— dracaena, heart pounding as nails dug into his waist and fangs filled his vision. He swallowed, wondering if it would be better or not to look death in the face before deciding it’d be worse, a lot worse, and squeezed his eyes shut.

;;

Clay is… confused. He gets it. He does. His visit was abrupt. Absolutely zero planning past step one. But the cold shoulder George seems to be giving him Clay swears he doesn’t deserve. He supposes it’s not a cold shoulder, but—Clay frowns when his commentary on the show they’re watching goes unlaughed at—it’s not exactly the warmth he expected.

George has been really quiet ever since they sorted out sleeping arrangements, only giving half-hearted answers to what they could watch on TV or what they should get to eat. He knows it was impulsive, but was going to the UK really that bad of an idea?

Halfway through the second episode of the sitcom they’re watching, George stretches, rising from the couch with the action. “I think I’m going to bed,” he says. “We can… do something tomorrow.”

“Yeah,” Clay replies, because he doesn’t really know what else to say, “of course.”

George smiles at him, but it’s empty, more out of courtesy than any true feeling. It’s wrong. Clay smiles back anyway. When George disappears into his bedroom, Clay goes to rummage through his own suitcase and pull out his toothbrush and tube of toothpaste. He finds the bathroom, the location having briefly slipped from his mind since his arrival earlier that day, and sets about brushing his teeth. He’s trying to figure out what’s appropriate to wear to bed when there’s a knock at the door, and when Clay turns, George stands there, small and awkward, a pile of blankets and a pillow in his arms. His eyes widen when he looks at Clay’s face before a laugh comes out of him, and he’s adjusting the pile in his arms to reach up and wipe away some toothpaste that had been dribbling down Clay’s chin.

“You look like an idiot,” he says. He reaches past Clay slightly to rinse off his thumb under the still running water. “I’ve got some blankets for you,” he adds, quiet, as he wipes his hand off on the hanging towel. It’s as the pad of his thumb brushes over the fabric that he seems to realize where he is—or rather who he’s with—and he straightens, light in his eyes fading and soft smile fading. “I’ll put them on the couch.”

He frogmarches out of the doorway and into the living room. Clay watches him all the while, heartstrings tugged by the other, though he isn’t sure why. He turns back to the sink, water still running. 

Well. At least it’s clear that, despite the freezing out going on, George is still in love with him. He doesn’t know if that’s good or not.

Clay looks up at his reflection in the mirror. He doesn’t know much of anything these days.

 ;;

True to his word, George had left the blankets on the couch, but seemed to decide he’d met his Dream quota for the day, since he’s back in his room with the door shut by the time Clay comes out of the bathroom.

He expects sleep to be a fight, but by the time he’s under the blankets on the couch, head resting on the pillow, the soft scent of George’s detergent (of George) wrapped all around him, exhaustion pulls at his bones, and he’s asleep within seconds.

 ;;

When Clay wakes, sunlight streams in through open blinds, and George’s door is still shut. He shoves the blankets off of himself, sitting up and looking around. He doesn’t really want to wake up, but anticipation sets him on edge, and he finds himself going through George’s cabinets like some creep, not searching for food, but also not not searching for food. Or at least that’s what he tells him, just to feel a little less like some freak.

After a good while of going through most of the cabinets below the counter, Clay gets to the cabinets over the counter, and that’s when George’s door opens and he walks into the kitchen. He doesn’t say anything, so neither does Clay, who just continues on his mission of thoroughly inspecting every item in George’s kitchen. He can feel George’s eyes on him the entire time, and he swears if he were to look at his skin, there’d be markings there, George’s gaze that heavy. 

“Are you looking for something?” George finally asks.

“No,” Clay replies, nearing the final cabinet, “I’m just looking.”

George doesn’t say anything for a bit. And then, “You’re so weird.”

Clay can’t stop himself from scoffing. “That’s rich coming from you.”

George makes a noise, and when Clay looks at him, his brows are furrowed and lips downturned. But also the morning sun is catching in his hair and making it glow golden and some of it dances across his face, turning his pupils to honey, warm and hazy with sleep still. His frown disappears then, settling into something gentler, kinder, a smile curling at the corners of his lips, and it’s at that moment, him standing there looking soft and relaxed in his pajamas, Clay thinks he wouldn’t mind seeing George like this every morning, and oh. That’s what this is.

For as much as George is in love with Clay, he’s in love with George all the same.

“What?” George asks, and Clay blinks, startled out of his thoughts. “Why are you looking at me like that? Is there something on my face?”

Clay blinks again before a laugh breaks free from his mouth, happy and light for what feels like the first time since getting here. “Nope,” he replies, popping the ‘p.’ “Just looking.”

George stares at him for a long second before sighing. “Just find something to eat for breakfast.”

So Clay does, and they have some bland British cereal in matching bowls, and then they pick up where they left off in the TV show last night, and this time when Clay makes a joke, George laughs, and Clay grins and cracks another one at the earliest opportunity, and he’s in love with George, and despite how monumental it seemed upon realizing, it’s really not monumental at all.

The sky is blue, the grass is green, and Clay is in love with George. What’s new?