Lemon’s gt

Writing and coming up with stories is my life, but this blog here is specifically a place to put all of my G/t related stories onto. And to hopefully read as many of yours as I can get my hands on! Other, non-G/t stuff will also be posted here when connected to a larger story, but that is the priority.

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Here are some of said stories below if you feel so inclined (all sfw, with tw added as needed):

{ October, 1993 }

Will stared at the young girl seated in front of him, currently stuffing her face with handfuls of greased up french toast, quietly assessing how many minutes it’d been since she came up for air. Despite her preoccupation, she was always the first to speak, berating the man with questions while at the same time half-chewing her food.

“Where is it anyway?” She asked through a mouthful. Will fidgeted with the rim of his clean ceramic coffee mug as he answered in the low, honest tone he’d gotten familiar with using around her. “Little town called Pineville straight off the border,” he told her.

“Just you?”

Aka tiny grandma and her giant grandson

Behind the Scenes: Movie Night

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All was quiet inside the Pacific Bay Theater.

Almost.

Viewing hours had ended well over an hour ago, signaling sweet freedom to the night shifters who desperately wanted to get home and collapse onto their respective beds and couches. Handing off the keys to the building like a game of hot potato until they ended up in the hands of whoever was last inside to lock up for the night.

Strange how it always seemed to be Tyler’s hands. But who were they to care? There were beds and couches that needed warming elsewhere in the city.

And secretly, Tyler had plans of his own that night, right here in theater number nine.

Tyler sat fully reclined in one of the many red leather seats, legs crossed with his arms folded behind his head. He’d made himself comfortable amidst the beckoning glow of the projector light bouncing off the front wall; a bright, triumphant score sounding throughout the largely empty space.

Beside him, on the adjoining armrest, sat someone equally glued to the screen but twice as starry-eyed, a single shred of popcorn situated in their lap. Though apparently, this matter was not the most fascinating thing in the world at the moment. Marked by the current swell of the soundtrack, the human actor on screen had just discovered the alien ship approaching. Their state of panic contrasted by the wide, knowing smiles on both audience members.

It wasn’t long until their shared silence was broken once more. This time by a loud whisper.

“Hey, Nico,” Tyler muttered to the borrower seated somewhere near his shoulder, though it was far too dark to see clearly without turning his attention on them entirely, and that would’ve broken the trance they were currently under. There was a low noise like a grunt to his left, something to show they were listening. And with that, Tyler continued, neither meeting the other’s eyes but instead immersing themselves in the sound of each other’s voices.

“Do you think aliens would like… like us?” The human asked with genuine curiosity. “If we ever met them.”

Nico considered this for a moment, a short hum escaping them before answering through a mouthful of popcorn, “I think if they do exist, they definitely don’t want us knowing about them.”

It was then that Tyler broke their mutual space-out, tilting not just his head but his whole body onto the side just to get a better view of the figure sitting on the armrest. In turn, Nico’s attention snapped onto the human figure looming ever so slightly closer to them, swallowing the remnants of their food that felt as if it’d fallen directly into the pit of their stomach. Tyler’s tone was a mix of apprehension and curiosity, his expression much the same, when he responded,

“Why not?”

Nico shrugged as casually as they could manage, avoiding the giant’s unintentionally pointed gaze. Their explanation was simple. “Well you weren’t supposed to know about me either.”

Without having to see it fully, they could feel the smile currently breaking out across the human’s big, dumb face. Awkward and impossibly kind.

“…But we became friends, didn’t we.”

Nico’s stomach churned with something. Rocks or butterflies, they could hardly tell anymore. ‘Friend,’ the human had said, as if it were fact. A week or two ago, Nico’s reaction most likely would have been one of repulsion or detestation at such a horrific claim.

But today, they found themselves strangely warmed by the thought. And even worse, agreeing with it.

That huge grin on that huge face suddenly didn’t seem so menacing anymore. Nico just as soon found themselves smiling back, half out of exasperation.

“Yeah,” the borrower admitted, surprising even themselves. “I guess you’re right.”

It seemed even Tyler was taken aback by his normally stubborn friend’s quick relent. He crossed his arms and made a soft exhale through his nose that Nico felt all over, raising goosebumps they hoped weren’t easily noticed under the dim lights.

“Mm. Glad to hear you admit it for once,” Tyler teased lightheartedly, casting the thin layer of tension out of the room in a way Nico felt both envious of and deeply grateful for. With a scoff, Nico threw their remaining popcorn shred at the shoulder just out of reach, “Shut up,” watching Tyler react as if he’d been struck with a bullet when he most likely hadn’t even felt it land. Giggles erupted from either side, giddy and drunk on lack of sleep.

Gradually, their focus fell back onto the movie, having missed a significant chunk of it, though neither one cared in the slightest. Of course, the moment would eventually be interrupted again by someone pointing out an interesting angle choice or a clever line, respectively. Maybe something to try out later with their own tools. But for now the quiet had returned as, on screen, the scientist and the alien made first contact. Staring wildly at the other as each attempted to fathom the existence of something so new and unfamiliar to them.

In the theater rows, another piece of popcorn was passed delicately between the human and the borrower, who still hadn’t figured that part out, exactly. Perhaps they would never get over how impossible it all seemed.

But they could at least learn to make it familiar.

All was quiet inside theater nine when the credits began to roll. Tyler had lost the fight against sleep some time ago, having sworn with confidence that he wouldn’t, and he’d surely deny it further once Nico managed to get him awake. Kick him in the shoulder a few times or shout out his name. Except, the borrower only sat there, firmly rooted in place. Staring as the giant’s breathing evened out, chest rising and falling at a slower pace with each passing second. It was… comforting. No, actually, it was terrifying, just— not in the way Nico expected it to be. What sent a chill down their spine was how, given the chance to prolong this moment even a little while longer, Nico would jump at the opportunity without so much as an ounce of hesitation.

Even deeper down, there was something else, something more. A feeling so incomprehensible that it hadn’t even become a fully formed thought in Nico’s mind, yet felt strongly enough that not even the stubborn borrower could deny it. The reason why Nico was so eager to remain here with Tyler. ‘But we became friends, didn’t we?’ Their heart pounded in their ears, vision blurring as eyes began to water, though the evidence of it was swiftly wiped away. As undeniable as rocks and butterflies.

Here’s a quick lil something inspired by my earlier post about borrowers living in movie theaters. I also have a pretty strong idea of where to take this one from here, so if you do like it, stay tuned for more.

Behind the Scenes

Do you know how much of a mess people make at a movie theater? Bucketfuls of popcorn spilled across the aisles, scraps of barely touched food littering the floor, sometimes fully untouched water bottles left stranded in their designated seats.

It is undeniably gross, unbelievably wasteful, and so absolutely perfect. That is, to someone—or rather, to something like Nico.

And by Nico’s own logic, it’s not even really borrowing anymore when the food’s already been tossed aside, right? If they weren’t there, surely some exhausted, underpaid janitor would’ve just come by and banished it to the trash bins without so much as a second thought. Truly, how ungrateful humans were, complained the number one benefactor of said ungratefulness.

Plus, the dark made a wonderful cover. About fifteen minutes or so after the final credits scene of whatever screening was scheduled last that day, so would the last of the college-aged clerks begin to close up shop, exiting the building with an affirming click of a key in a lock and a jostling of the double push-doors to make sure it was shut securely.

In the right ears, these sounds became signals. A green light, indicating to any theater-dwelling borrowers that it was their time to shine. Figuratively speaking.

Realistically, Nico would make their nightly trek alone. Limping on in silence across the darkened space, steps muted by the soft carpet floors. A cloth bag had been slung over their shoulder, the same material as their teeshirt, while the borrower made their rounds collecting any pieces of popcorn and pretzels and chips that the janitors hadn’t gotten around to yet.

Only after a life’s worth of practice had they learned that the end-of-day cleaners tended to start on the lower floors and work their way up—so naturally, Nico started doing the opposite.

Now, with a bag almost too heavy to carry on their own, Nico was forced to make the excruciatingly long hike back to home base. The home in question was a broken cabinet drawer inside one of the second floor projector booths. They had lived on the third floor, once upon a time, but as soon as those memories resurfaced Nico would just shove them back down again. There was no third floor anymore. After the building’s remodel about a decade or so back, Nico wasn’t even sure if their current booth linked to an active room. In all the time they’d lived there since, not a single human had entered. Not even the cleaners.

Nico climbed up the fairly short ladder that led up from the floor into a hole in the bottom of the cabinet. The red plasticky surface of the clumsily built gaffer-tape-drinking-straw contraption gave a little under their shoes, but it was enough to stay sturdy, and that’s really all they could ask for. Especially now that the theater had cheaped out on plastic straws in favor of the flimsy paper kind that practically dissolved upon contact with water. Talk about inconvenience.

Actually, speaking of conveniences, the lights inside the drawer flicked on once Nico entered the space, a warm welcome home. Gone were the days of using keychain flashlights to stumble their way around. Years ago an LED aisle light in theater four had broken, the glass lid that usually covered it being left unscrewed for the workers to fix it when they clocked in the next morning. Imagine their surprise when they found nothing but an empty divot in the floor, the insides having been mysteriously gutted overnight. Nico certainly liked to imagine it. They couldn’t help but feel proud at having accomplished such a feat.

All it took was a few hours of carefully nudging the thing out an inch at a time, all whilst trying not to electrocute themselves in the process, until they were finally able to haul the thing out of the ground. On a bad leg, mind you. Then, after the grueling process of dragging it home, turns out all the thing needed was a few new batteries. That part went easily enough, since Nico’s living space was located directly above the concessions stand, which in turn was right next door to the absolute treasure trove that was the maintenance closet.

All things considering, Nico counted themselves lucky to be living such a comfortable life, by borrower standards. Loneliness seemed a small price to pay for an endless supply of food as well as the optimal conditions to go and retrieve it.

They hadn’t always been alone. It was the very same remodel that gave Nico this cushy place to live that had scared the others off. It wasn’t like the borrowers had the construction company’s schedule or anything, so from their point of view they might as well have been tearing the building down around them right then and there. Hell, in a way they were.

Luck was far too sweet a word. It was probably fate that Nico wasn’t able to flee with the rest of them. Images of rubble falling, tools breaking through walls like screeching animals hellbent on destruction; metal jaws snapping and silver blades whirring and stone crumbling in every direction. And a leg trapped beneath. And a kid crying out for help to parents who could no longer hear them over the endless droning of human-sized tools.

Like they’d said, there was a third floor. And now there wasn’t, now, there was Nico.

Nico packed the excess food into an assortment of clear earplug cases. The ones they put up for sale during the occasional surround-sound showing, just in case some human customer learned they couldn’t handle the booming thunder that the average borrower lived with on a daily basis.

After that, they tried to sleep. Despite the immediate sense of relief that came with lying down after a hard night’s work, it took no less than an hour (on a good night) for Nico’s mind to relent and allow them a moment of peace. A crushing sense of guilt always lurked in the shadows after hours, boring into their skull like a drill on the nights they went to bed with a full stomach under a plush bundle of napkins.

Tonight was no exception. Because of this predicament, Nico often replayed movies in their head to drown everything out. Tonight’s mental rerun was of some new flick they’d seen about a human befriending an alien. It seemed silly, yet here they were, playing it through scene by scene as they muttered lines of dialogue and laughed under their breath at all the funny bits. It had been playing in theater twelve earlier that week and when no humans had turned up well over an hour in—typical for an early afternoon showing—they assured themselves that it was safe enough to simply watch from the sidelines. After all, even if someone did walk in late, it would be way too dark to see beyond the beckoning glow of the projector screen.

Nico, like always, had taken diligent notes while watching it. Camera angles, perspective shots, creative choices they would pick apart for days afterward and discover a new meaning to every time the scene replayed itself in their head.

That night Nico fell asleep not counting sheep, but the amount of cuts that were made in the tense climax of the film. Their muscles finally relaxed and their tired eyes fell shut. Yet still, that knot in their stomach lingered. Something awful was going to happen. They just knew it.

It was a good life, Nico was convinced. In fact, it had almost been too good. Suspiciously so. To the borrower’s knowledge, it was only a matter of time until the inherent unfairness of a world unfit for them would dismantle their moment of calm once again.

They just wished that it didn’t have to be today.

Nevertheless, it seemed Nico’s ten-year stroke of luck had finally run dry. As they woke up bleary-eyed the following morning and bided their time until closing—judging by the hands of some random guy’s watch Nico had snagged off the bathroom counter ages ago—he left home once again to discover that clean new posters had been hung up all throughout the building.

That wasn’t the unusual part, the hallway posters were switched up just about every other week to keep up with the latest releases. Nico even kept some of the promotional stickers for their own decorative purposes. But what caused their heart to drop into their stomach upon seeing them was the text written in bold at the top; going wide-eyed and open-mouthed, craning their neck way back in order to better read the impossibly high wall of paper.

‘Stop by during Pacific Bay Theater’s all-new midnight viewing hours: now open from 11:30 pm to 4:30 am each day!’

The exclamation mark at the end taunted from above as though it were a stereotypical movie villain, wicked smile growing as impending doom settled onto the protagonist’s shoulders. But what could they do? Without any time to borrow there would be hardly enough to eat, given that they’d already been relying solely on scraps. And with more humans working there would be that much more danger lurking through the halls. Nico’s mind ran a mile a minute, trying to piece together the logistics of these unfavorable new circumstances all at once, their breath quickening into shallow gasps for air.

This feeling wasn’t an unfamiliar one, and with the oncoming panic came the one thing they knew would be able to ease their pain, having used it countless times before. The metaphorical projector in their head clicked on, casting imaginary floodlights over the backs of their eyelids as a flood of familiar scenes sprang to life. They continued the rest of their trek through the building in a daze.

Along the way, a quote befitting of their own thoughts was brought to mind. In the words of another fine piece of sci-fi cinema—a genre that was quickly becoming Nico’s favorite:

—

Quiiick little update so I did actually end up writing something for this. So much fun! Heheh

So I’m a huge film nerd. And thinking about my love for movies and my love for g/t… a borrower type character in that setting would literally be SO perfect.

Like, okay, hear me out:

Borrower living in a movie theater? It’s low light conditions so they aren’t easily spotted, plus humans are constantly distracted, and they leave mounds of food scraps EVERYWHERE. On the floor, on the seats, all within reach.

A borrower who wants to make movies of their own? Just use a GoPro! They’re one inch tall cameras + are readily available at any nearby tech store + can come up to HD or higher in quality despite the small size + are very hard to break + it’s digital footage so you just need batteries and you’re all good to go. Perfection!

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Summary: Curtis has a bit of a freakout over a new revelation and continues to be a drama queen about it, however, Romanius isn’t having it.

TW: Portrayal of a panic attack, swearing

Work count: 2.7k

Something is terribly, terribly wrong.

It hits me the moment I’m freed from the cagey jaws of that bizarre metal structure. The afterimage of endless pressure still felt in the most uncomfortable of places.

There’s dust and dirt everywhere. In my hair, in my clothes, on the ground; blending into the fresh blood and bruises dotting my skin in a stomach-churning wash of color. This, I’m starting to realize, is not the worst thing about my current state.

For the first time, my surroundings are somewhat recognizable. I’m located in the middle of what looks to be a city, or it could just be a well-off town. There are brick buildings, trees lining the sidewalk, and cars along the streets. Except there’s one—well, two really—major problems.

One, is that there’s not a single other soul in sight apart from me and my rescuer. The landscape is deafeningly quiet, as though life were at a standstill. It’s often hard for me to explain this to people, but that’s something I’ve always despised, ever since I was little. The absence of sound. I need the sound, the music, the conversation. Headphones on the bus ride home and songs in the shower. It allows me to breathe, to think, to live. The overwhelming silence of this place just makes my skin crawl.

The second biggest problem about this unfamiliar landscape, is that I find myself towering over almost all of it.

In fact, it’s the person below me who looks comparably proportional to our surroundings.

Thinking back to the railing, or even the way the supposedly metal structure fell away as soon as I’d been given agency to move—how I didn’t put the pieces together earlier is beyond me. It’s apparent now, glaringly so, that it’s me who’s out of place here. That it’s me who is the problem.

I am not only at a loss for words, but struck with a reality so earth shattering that my entire body begins to shake uncontrollably, hugging my arms tightly around myself in an attempt to pull myself inward, crumple myself into something smaller and more manageable. My vision spins, model buildings blurring together. This can’t be happening. Everything was normal just a few hours ago, and anyway, shouldn’t I have at least felt it? If I really…

Black polished nails dig into sore shoulders. I violently want to claw my way out of this body that is no longer mine.

“CURTIS!” A voice shouts up at me, sounding too far away and right beside me all at once.

“Curtis! Quid est?! Hello?”

Something light is tugging at the hem of my gray jeans. The same pair our drummer Neil had let me borrow for the night because mine were still in the wash when we had left for soundcheck. God, even these clothes aren’t really mine.

Tentatively, I glance down to the space between my boots.

“Quid est?!” Romanius repeats, words raised in alarm. His facial features melt into a hazy blob as my eyes begin to water. When my mouth parts to respond, nothing comes out.

As shock dulls into something heavy and bleak, I find myself shifting onto my side, involuntarily curling into the fetile position. My hand runs halfway through my hair before coming to a stop, the other wrapped around my knees, which are now hugged against my chest.

I neglect to think about the presence alongside me. I forget to think entirely. It feels like the cold, metal walls of that cage are closing in around me a second time, squeezing the air from my lungs and threatening to suffocate. I press my eyes shut, blocking out the world in order to better pretend I’m lying on that soft leather couch I’d been robbed of a nap on. Or even better, in the comfort of my own bed.

I don’t even register the scuffing of Romanius’ footsteps as he approaches me, stifled by the pounding in my ears. I can hardly feel the contact as he places a hand against my lower arm, sliding the soft fabric of his glove across it in slow, circular patterns.

This is fucking stupid, I think to myself. I’m the size of a fucking building, bawling my fucking eyes out, and he’s comforting me like I’m a little fucking kid. I don’t want him to stop.

“Scio,” his soothing voice breaches through the storm. “Scio…” and I wish I knew what the word meant.

Soon he moves away from just patting my arm to fully leaning his weight into it. It could be a hug, or something close to it at least, it really shouldn’t be this hard to tell. Whatever it is though, it’s shockingly effective.

Romanius keeps rambling on, tone unsteady as if he isn’t sure whether it’s helping or making things worse. I have no way of telling him that the sound of his voice alone is honestly my favorite thing in the world right now.

“Scio hoc esse formidulosum…”

The knot in my chest continually unwinds, my limbs going slack. An air of sadness enters his next few soft-spoken words.

“Nullum mihi modum est hoc tibi explicandi.”

Right now I feel like the worst person in the world. That is, if I’m even truly a person anymore. If I’m even in my world still. My voice cuts through amidst hics and sobs, the ache in my throat unyielding. Yet he doesn’t appear to mind in the slightest.

“What’s going on…” I choke out.

“Doleo,” the man says through a sigh, resting his forehead against the wall of my arm. By now my suddenly unfamiliar body’s gone completely still, the shaking eased down once the rest of my energy drips away with it.

As the world seeps back in to my mind, my shame only builds, and I feel disgusted with myself for having broken down in front of this complete and total stranger.

This complete stranger who most likely saved your life, I forcibly remind myself.

Still… this is nice.

After a short while, I dare peek out from my hiding spot in the dark of my eyelids. He’s still there, pausing what he’s doing once he notices the half-lidded eye currently trained on him. Concern is etched across his features, brows knitted and his posture stiff.

He doesnt say anything more, so neither do I. I only breathe in, and out again, proving to him that I remembered what he told me to do. This seems to ease his mind somewhat, a fraction of the tension alleviating from his shoulders.

“Thank you…” I whisper gruffly, and he must’ve remembered that saying from when I’d thanked him sometime ago because his face instantly lights up with recognition. He pats me once more on the arm in reassurance, smiling patiently.

Oh man, I’m such a fucking wreck. How the hell is he feeling right now? No wait, backtrack, where did this guy even come from? It feels like he appeared as abruptly as that structure had. And I just now grasp how little I actually know of this man, apart from his unusual name and a vague read on his personality.

A snort erupts out of me that I realize isn’t another choked sob, but a laugh—surprising the both of us. “This is insane,” I admit, hugging my knees a bit closer. “This is fucking insane, isn’t it?” I give Romanius a helpless but amused look, and he seems to catch on that I’ve mostly woken up out of my daze.

Another thing I note about Romanius is that he doesn’t like to waste a single second. As soon as he’s gauged that I’m awake enough to interact with, he gets back to work. Stepping away and clapping his hands together to redirect my attention back on him, silencing my messy thoughts with one sharp, singular noise.

He’s resumed signaling once again, both arms held out in front of him, palm side up, and then waving them sporadically up and down. I blink in confusion for a moment, thinking how he looks like a bird trying to take off. Then it clicks. Up, he’s saying, get up.

“Why?” I ask pointlessly, every sore bone in my body crying out to stay in place.

“What’s the point…? Are we meant to be going somewhere?” I’ve already been enough of a burden, it would be best for him to leave my dreary self out here indefinitely. Neil was laughing about it back then, while we were waiting for our name to be called onto stage, but he was ultimately right. I am a lazy fucker who can’t even finish his own laundry.

…But then, wasting my life like that seems twice as disrespectful to the man who’d just gone through every effort to save it.

Apparently my lack of immediate cooperation only frustrates Romanius, because he quickly abandons gesturing to try his hand at shoving me instead. Both hands braced against my arm while his boots scrape grooves into the dirt. I’d like to believe this was a symbolic gesture, and that he didn’t genuinely think he was going to be able to move me—right? Although, it’d be a lie to call his actions since we met ‘rational’ in any sense.

“Jeez! Alright, alright, I’m going—!” I assure him, trying to keep my voice soft despite the exhaustion prickling at the edges. “Just— back up, yeah?”

“Ita, ita… Bene,” he grumbles, stepping backward into the street. “Me paenitet.” And I don’t move an inch until he’s gotten a good distance away, preferably on the opposite end of the street.

Oh god, oh god, we’re really doing this, okay.

I’ve had yet to actually stand up since I got here. So I decide to take it slow, rolling onto my back before propping myself up on my elbows and lightly propelling myself forward into a reclined seated position.

I try to keep my focus on the distant horizon line as best I can, rather than on the cars or buildings rapidly falling beneath my line of sight as I stand the rest of the way, avoiding all eye contact in a sort of ‘don’t look down’ approach.

I wobble a little as my legs adjust to supporting my own weight again, arms braced outward on either side for balance.

Okay, look, I’ve never been good at estimating height. Erik is—or was, I guess, our main guitarist—anyway at some point he took it upon himself to start adjusting the mic for me prior to every show ‘cause whenever I had to do it it always ended up either a foot below my chin or I had to stand tiptoe to scream into it.

That being said, turns out you don’t have to estimate much when you’re looking straight at the roof of a four-fucking-story building.

Ohmygodohmygodohmy—

“Heus!”

My mind goes quiet again as it dawns on me that the ‘don’t look down’ rule isn’t exactly practical for conversation. Reluctantly, I turn my attention down and to the right, where Romanius is standing on a section of sidewalk with hands cupped around his mouth.

“Quid spectas, Curtis?” He projects upward.

Hearing my own name being called, strangely enough, is sorta grounding. There’s a glove up to cover it, but his toothy grin might as well be visible from space.

“Vah!” He exclaims. “Multo altior es quam te esse putaveram!”

“Uhm, uhh, yeah,” I stutter like a massive idiot.

With a skip in his step, Romanius ushers wildly for me to follow him as he saunters further down the street. Follow him where? Who the hell knows! Anywhere but here is cool with me, I guess.

Looking back, sobbing on the ground in front of someone I met less than an hour ago wasn’t the most embarrassing thing I’ve ever done. I mean, man, it’s certainly up there. But, no.

What happened next probably was. And one small step forward was all it took, apparently.

I understood well enough that threading my way through the narrow obstacles of the street would be a challenge. But I’d gotten so panicky about accidentally stepping wrong that whatever combination of stress, anxiety, and hyper awareness had been flowing through me in that moment imploded hardly half a second after taking my first step forward. A jarring ‘BING—BONG’ sounds out literal inches from my left shoe, the automatic doors of some storefront answering to the movement of me setting my foot down.

“AH!—“ Instinctively, I stumble backward, away from the noise, when out of nowhere my right shoe hits something else. The shrill blare of a car alarm erupts from behind me so I then pivot around toward that noise, interrupted only by a startled shriek of my own.

Turning around so abruptly is bad, evidently, when your legs are still somewhat numb from the whole box-trap situation. My legs give out under no pressure and I helplessly fall back into the row of buildings the first noise had erupted out of. So much for walking. So much for standing. “OW! FUCK, SORRY!”

Broken off chunks of brick cascade down my shoulders while I reach up to protect my neck and head, eyes squeezed shut, purposefully angled so that my wrists cover my ears in the process. A poor attempt to drown out the miserable HONK—HONK—HONK—of complete and utter failure.

None of this makes sense. Noise was supposed to be a comfort. It’s all I have, please, I beg to whichever trickster god decided to ruin my life for kicks today. I’ve already lost my home, my body, please don’t take this from me too.

The sound of glass splintering brings an end to the relentless drone of the car alarm.

“Morere, sordidum argenteum animal!” A rough voice scoffs and snarls.

When I pry my eyes open again, I bare witness to what’s probably the second or third most baffling sight of the evening.

Romanius, on top of the hood of a newly dented car (my fault, I assume), sword in hand, blade sliced clean through the windshield and into the dash where the alarm system must’ve resided. I blink at him, stunned.

What the actual fuck?! Where on earth did Romanius get a sword from?! Did he have that this whole time?

He’s also never looked so… intense, before. Not since I’ve known him. His lungs huff the air with a crazed hunger, a layer of ice having settled over those once soft eyes.

I catch my breath, sliding my hands off my ears and down toward my chest with every ounce of composure I can muster up. “Uh.. uhm, R.. Romanius? …You alright, buddy?”

His gaze tears away from the car windshield and back onto me, landing first on my shoes, then the wreckage, then to me. That intensity in him leaves as quickly as it came, softness returning to the dark of his eyes in a matter of seconds, just from looking up at me, metaphorically shrunk into myself and trembling like a damn leaf.

“Ah…” he wavers, before that familiar worry reenters his tone, turning to face me fully as he slides off the front bumper and rushes over from across the street.

“Valesne?!” He asks rather frantically.

I press my palms to the sidewalk in an attempt to make myself go as rigid as possible. Though my head is forced to tilt farther and farther down the closer Romanius gets. Eventually he stops in his tracks at the sight of me flinching and backing away from him.

“Nuh-uh,” I protest, shaking my head rigorously from side to side. “Too dangerous. It’s way too dangerous. I’m—“

My pleas fall on deaf ears, because next thing I know, my wrist is being hoisted forward like a felled tree. Dragging me—or whatever part of me he can manage to get ahold of—back into action.

“Seriously, man?!”

He sends a glare my way, sharp as a sword’s blade. My throat swallows with the reminder.

Take two, then.

I begrudgingly brush traces of dust and brick from my hair and off the sleeves of my tee shirt. Nonetheless, I get up. After all, it seems I have no choice in the matter.

Damn it, I curse under a breath. This is going to take some getting used to.

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Summary: Curtis is trapped. Thankfully a strange, inches-tall man has just come to their rescue.

TW: Claustrophobia, swearing

Word count: 4.8k

My ears are still ringing from that sweet cacophony of sound, throat scratched raw from having just screamed my voice out on stage in the basement of some back alley bar. I can hear them calling out the next group’s name as I enter one of the rooms backstage, the announcer’s words and subsequent applause muffling as I shut the door behind me with a deep, yet satisfied exhale.

Posters and flyers of performances past coat the walls to such a degree that the original color of the walls is unknown to me. But oh man, I could not care less about the color of these walls. There is one sole thing in my sights, taunting me from across the room, and right now it is all my heart desires.

I don’t bother taking off my shoes, the laces and buckles are always a hassle to undo anyway. And I don’t bother wiping off the layers of dark, glittery makeup either, though a bit of eyeliner does smudge across my hand as I let out a yawn, shuffling toward a leather couch that’s long seen better days. It’s comfortably situated against the back wall beside a small round side table with an antique lamp on it. A warm, fragmented beacon inside the dimly lit space.

Anticipating my sweet collapse into the leathery cushions of the couch, I opt to make a big show of spinning around and falling backwards onto it, allowing my legs to finally buckle beneath my weight when—

—CLANK!

A sharp jolt of pain shivers throughout my spine as something solid and cold smacks me square in the back of the head. “OW! FUCK—!” I blurt, instinctively reaching up to grab at the spot of pain in my neck, except my arm no longer wants to move. No, there’s something pushing against it now. And it’s as I turn my attention to look at what the hell the issue is when I realize I can’t move my head either. The surface I’d just slammed my head into is still above me, as well as behind me. It’s absolutely everywhere, compressing me on all sides.

Stay calm.

My mind returns to me one sensation at a time. First, is the absolute stillness of my entire body. I can’t move a damn muscle.

Then, it’s the immense pressure boring down on me from every angle—cramped into the most uncomfortable position I’ve ever been in in my life. I’m still seated, but it’s as if I’d missed the couch by a few feet, at least, and had dropped directly to the floor instead. My legs are sprawled in two completely separate positions, twisting up, under, and around various unseen obstacles. Same with my arms; my left is elevated slightly while the other is pressed flat to the floor. Cold, oddly metallic, and I think also a bit dusty. It’s identical to the pressure against my neck and shoulders.

The last sense to return to me is my vision. I can’t fucking see a thing, I realize. Tilting my head even a half an inch forward helps me understand why though, because I’m instantly confronted with yet another dark metal beam. Smack—right in the way of my fucking eyes. Awesome.

My skull buzzes from an oncoming headache, but the exhaustion I once felt is already long gone, replaced by the adrenaline now coursing through my veins. With no way to exert it, I’m left breaking out into a cold sweat as my lungs struggle to take in each short, shallowed breath. The air in here is stuffy too, I think.

A whirlwind of thoughts breaks through the static, messy and loud.

Oh god. What the fuck. Am I in a box, or a cage, or is this some kind of grotesque Saw trap?! There sure wasn’t one when I walked in here, or I think I would’ve noticed the giant fucking cage of horrors in the middle of the room.

After another sharp intake, I begin screaming at the top of my lungs. “HELP! HELP ME! PLEASE, I’M STUCK!”

Stuck in what though? Seriously, where the hell even am I? I’m now starting to wonder if I’m even in the same room anymore because the air here feels different against my skin. Cooler, heavier, and suffocatingly stagnant. I cry out for as long as I am able.

However, I’d just done that exact thing for three straight hours, and my lungs and throat give up almost immediately. Coughing only makes me more aware of my surroundings, the rapid expanding and contracting of my chest pinned against the weight of something solid and unmoving.

Whether it’s been ten seconds or ten minutes is beyond me. I’ve abandoned all sense of time, my increasing panic causing me to blend the two together. Even the muffled voices of the band’s performance outside have since vanished out of earshot. I have never felt so completely and utterly alone.

…

God, I want desperately to rub at the soreness in my neck. I want to break out of here and sit up and stretch and then fall back onto the couch, where I belong. This headache is already drilling holes through my head. Tears are spilling down my face and traces of sparkly eyeliner are stinging my eyes so badly that I just decide to close them. They aren’t doing me much good at the moment, anyway.

Out of nowhere, a voice breaks through the quiet, sounding unusually far away. Though it’s hard to make out, exactly. Not that it’s too quiet or muffled, which is a real enough possibility—it’s that it sounds like complete gibberish to my ears. Nonetheless, it echoes off the encompassing metal surfaces, somewhere vaguely off to my right.

“Salve? Estne hic aliquis!?”

Unthinking, I turn my head toward the source of the voice. Greeted by yet another pleasant whack to the head, as well as the shoulder, for some reason. Another string of expletives spills out of me at the resulting pain. At least there’s aspirin in my bag, but where the hell is that?

“Saaalve?” It sings, with the upward intonation of someone calling for a lost pet. Has this guy genuinely not realized I’m here yet? I can’t be that well hidden, right? Shit, maybe there really was a trap smack dab in the center of the room. But who the hell puts a trap in—

“Audivi aliquem auxilium clamantem...”

With the state I’m in, it doesn’t matter in the slightest that I can’t comprehend a word of it. I don’t know, maybe I’d given myself a concussion from hitting my head on the way down. Honestly, that doesn’t seem like too far of a stretch. Shit.

“Hello?!” I breathlessly restate, wincing at the strain of my own voice knocking through my head. My own breath reflects back at me off the beam sitting less than an inch from my face, blocking my vision, condensation fogging up the metal. That, and my left arm has since gone numb from being pinned upright this whole time.

My cries are met with a light gasp, or what I’m pretty sure is a gasp, because I certainly don’t hear another breath from the guy afterward. Not knowing where they’re positioned relative to me is terribly disorienting.

“Ah—salve!” Shouts the man once again, his tone considerably more joyous than before. Why did he sound so excited? It made my skin crawl, more so than it was already doing.

I reckon that means ‘hello.’

“Uhh…” I stutter, suddenly hot with embarrassment, an added emotion that I assuredly did not need right now. “H.. Help? Please!?”

There’s an uneasy pause before he responds, leaving me to worry whether he’s left me here alone. Relief washes over me when his young, somewhat rough voice pipes up again.

“Audi,” he declares in an assertive tone, flawlessly commanding my attention. “Ego te hinc exire, bene?”

A weak little whimper of a response escapes me, my face only burning hotter because of it. Oh god, please don’t leave me here.

From what little I’m able to gather, I’d say the stranger sounded equally uncertain. And part of me wonders if that’s because the language barrier has just become apparent to him as well.

There’s a rustling noise to my right, where the man’s voice had vaguely come from. Despite it startling me out of my skin, I suppress the urge to flinch any further, fully aware of the consequences.

It still baffles me why he’s maintaining such a distance away, judging by the hush of his voice. Though, it could be that he simply doesn’t want to get boxed in here alongside me. Which, after brief consideration, seems like a safe bet.

The rustling is followed up by a few harsh scrapes of metal on metal. Then something else shifts. My eyes dart around uselessly while my heart picks up its pace with each new mystery noise. After a tense bout of silence, I’m almost certain I can hear someone huffing for breath, causing the hair on the back of my neck to stand up.

“…Are.. are you there?” Is all I can manage to mutter.

And then something touches my arm.

I shriek, pulling my hand away to clutch my chest, the violent drumming of my heartbeat thudding through my shirt, hard enough to leap out of my body. The man yelps in turn.

Wait. My arm. Did I just—?

There’s another slow drag of metal as a pressure against my shoulder carefully relents. It takes everything in me not to burst into tears with the immense sense of relief that proceeds it, in spite of the ache it’s left behind.

“Oh my god, oh my god,” I choke, breathless, a hope of finally getting out of here bringing a wobbly smile to my lips.

Another scrape, way too close, and then the world comes into view. Except there are no posters on the walls, no couch or lamp. Just him, this stranger and I locking eyes for the very first time.

My heart sinks, along with my hopeful smile. Because mere inches away from my face is the entirety of a man gazing back at me. From the curls of his short dark hair, to the light scars along his tan arms and neck, to his distinctly prominent nose—down to even the dark hues of his baggy top, hidden under what looks to be chain mail—every little detail on his person is clear as day. So, why…?

Why does he still look so far away?

He’s standing on some kind of narrow platform with a railing, suspended to the ceiling I’m pressed up against and made of the same material as everything else. Neglecting to even breathe, I raise a slow, trembling hand, reaching out for the platform while clinging desperately to the expectation that it won’t—

My hand reaches the railing’s edge in no time at all. It really is inches from my face, then. My nausea grows at the sight of my own fingers curling fully around the platform, enveloping it and the railing entirely. The evidently tinier figure stands just off to the side of it, jerking back with the suddenness of the motion. And he’s the one standing on it, which means he must be… I gape over my own hand, feeling ten times sicker than I felt before.

The rail creaks out in protest.

“Mehercle!” The man swears, gripping the railing with one hand and his heart with the other, at the same time I gasp, “Holy shit!”

My hand falls immediately back to my side, albeit with a sharp aftermath of pain at the swift movement of my shoulder. I can’t help but wince, another pathetic grunt slipping through despite my best attempts to ignore the sensation.

Regardless of the already limited gap between us, the man then takes a step forward, leaning over the railing in response to my outcry. Which, if he is as small as I think he is in comparison to me—also a frankly insane thing to believe, but here I am—then getting any closer seems like a very bad idea.

And yet he leans over anyway, reaching out a hand of his own. I almost go cross eyed trying to keep my focus on it, and I briefly note that he’s wearing fingerless gloves. Huh. His expression is one of sheer concern, soft dark eyes clearly searching for some kind of injury that might have inspired me to grimace in such a way when I’d moved.

I catch myself just before saying something along the lines of: What are you? Because, shockingly, there are twice as many questions on my mind that feel way more important to ask. Like for starters, what’s happened to me, and where the actual fuck am I!

Picking up on my internal panic, the stranger is the first to speak up, although something’s changed now that we’re staring directly at each other. He continues his rambling in some tongue I still don’t recognize, but he’s also gesturing wildly to get the point across, an attempt to breach the language barrier that probably would’ve been endearing if not for the circumstances.

“Respiras,” he states, motioning downward with both hands as if pushing down on something before flipping them over palm-up and repeating the same process in reverse, pushing upward.

“Respiras.”

He’s breathing. In, and out. Hands motioning up and down. In and out. Respiras kinda sounds like respiration, I think. Like, lungs and shit, right? Shit, I’m no doctor, that’s for sure. Maybe that’s just his way of saying breathe. But then, I’m no linguist either.

Taking his lead, I reluctantly start following along. Each exhale stirs the dark curls of his hair, making my insides churn. As soon as my nerves begin to settle though, so does the onslaught of adrenaline, leaving only soreness behind as every tense muscle in me goes slack and my wide, panicked gaze gradually softens. This result seems to satisfy him after a minute or two of us just kind of breathing at each other.

Interestingly enough, I happen to catch a faint whiff of alcohol.

“Bene!” He commends after a pause, a relieved smile settling over him. Hey, I recognize that word, a part of me rejoices. It means ‘good,’ doesn’t it? God, this is undoubtedly the weirdest rescue operation I’ve ever been involved in. And that’s coming from someone whose seen the inside of an ambulance several times at many different shows.

With most of my senses having returned, I feel the overwhelming need to say something back, wracking my disheveled brain for something simple enough that it might get across the way his gestures had.

Man, I don’t even want to imagine how awful I must look like right now, especially in this stranger’s eyes. Long black streaks of makeup having dried on either side of my face, shaggy strands of hair sticking out in awkward places. And that’s not even accounting for the size difference. Seriously, how was he being so calm about this?

“Th… Thank you,” my weak voice practically crumbles, scratching hideously after a combination of sing-screaming, regular screaming, and just plain crying.

With a hand to my heart, the message appears to have gotten across, watching cautiously as the man smiles appreciatively and nods, placing a hand to his own. A weak laugh escapes me out of how insane I feel in this moment, the act alone sending a rustle through his dark hair.

“Ah— sorry,” I blurt out, but the strange man in front of me just shakes his head with a breathy laugh of his own and raises a hand, palm out, in the gesture for ‘stop,’ instantly shutting me up. Astonishment and wonder flood my senses where fear and panic once resided.

He serenades my nerves with more of his gentle, unfamiliar words. “Scio te non posse intelligere,” he sighs, turning up toward me with a look of fierce resolve. “Sed te reliquam viam nunc liberabo. Modo, quaeso, tene adhuc...”

I nod once as if I understood any part of that. He then turns to the side and starts walking down the length of the suspended walkway, metal clunking noisily beneath his boots.

Don’t you dare question this, I urge myself in an attempt not to spiral further, continuing to breathe deeply as my tiny instructor had taught me to do.

Something shifts once again, this time from under my left leg. It’s clearer to me now that what he’s doing is pulling the beams out from around me. Jeez, how difficult must that be for him? Is that why he’d been huffing so hard when I first saw him?

Knowing that he’s likely right beside my leg, I try to keep as steady as humanly possible. Oh man, do I try. But my limb had just been forcibly suspended in the air for who knows how long, and as soon as the surface slides out from underneath, there’s nothing I can do to stop it from buckling under the strain.

“Shit!” I choke. “Sorry!”

There’s a yelp from somewhere near the ground, and I think the worst, sitting ever so slightly forward in order to gauge where the shout had come from. The heaviest exhale ever exits my body when his voice returns, as composed as ever.

“Sum bene—!” He utters with surprise laced in his tone. Though it doesn’t sound fearful, somehow. A bit startled at most.

Bene, he had said. Good. He’s telling me he’s alright, then? I lean back against the cold wall, closing my eyes with immense relief that I didn’t just involuntarily murder the man kindly trying to rescue me.

Picking up where he left off, a pressure point is shortly liberated above my right leg, which thankfully wasn’t hung high in the air this time. Then it’s my right shoe, and onto the left. Making his rounds, freeing me up inch by inch, each time overwhelming me with emotion and gratitude. Tears threaten to return, but I manage to choke them back. In and out, I remind myself, picturing his movements in my mind. In, and out.

The tiny figure returns to my sights, clambering up the same metal platform as before until we come face to face once again. He looks absolutely exhausted, aside from the undeniably proud grin on his face, wiping sweat from his brow with the back of a hand.

“Omnes fieri,” he declares, placing both hands on his hips with finality. Now that he’s safely off the ground, I finally allow myself to take advantage of the newly provided wiggle room. Stretching out as far as I’m able to, bones cracking and popping in place as I do. Holy fucking shit did that feel good.

My rescuer flinches at the concerning racket, which is reasonable. But he soon relaxes at the sight of my expression, so overcome with relief that my eyes water and I bring a hand up to wipe it away. There were now black smudges across both of them, the other from when I had first entered the room and yawned, in what already feels like a lifetime ago. How long had it truly been? I wondered, on top of a thousand other things.

But the most imposing question sat at the forefront of my mind, much louder than the rest.

What now?

I glance toward my companion, searching for an answer of some kind in those dark, peaceful eyes. He must have sensed my focus turn to him because he meets my gaze with an equally thoughtful look, bringing a fist up to his chin in consideration.

After reaching a conclusion, he crosses his small arms over his chest, brushing against the chainmail overshirt with a light clinking noise.

“Tu,” he states, pointing accusingly at me. I point a finger back at myself. “Tu?” I repeat, causing him to nod with enthusiasm.

“You mean me? What about me?”

Words abandoned, he aims solely to gesture, and my brows furrow in preparation for round two of our weird little game of charades. He brings his arms together, hands meeting flatly in the middle, before pretending to pry something apart. It’s even coupled with an explosion sound effect that makes me question just how young this guy really is.

He couldn’t possibly be implying what I think he’s implying, could he?

“Wh… what?” I stammer in disbelief, raising my voice in alarm. “You want me to do WHAT?!”

The man shields his ears with his hands in response, and I instantly recoil, apologizing over and over in a hushed whisper while clasping my cursed mouth. I watch on in shame as he swiftly recovers from it, shaking out his hands.

Characteristically for him, he laughs it off, seamlessly removing the tension with a dismissive wave of his hand. He then makes a downward motion that I recognize as a polite demand to please be quieter.

I nod, slowly sliding the unclasped hand down my flushed face as he circles the conversation back around with ease.

He simply repeats his previous actions. Pointing at me, then prying apart his hands. Pointing at me, the structure, and then prying his hands apart. The only reason it takes me so long to comprehend what exactly he’s asking me to do is because I don’t want to belive it.

I sigh, groaning as the unpleasant idea sinks its teeth into me.

Now it’s my turn. I point at the figure in front of me, his eyes widening. “You,” I tell him. Miming as I cover the back of my head and neck with my hands, the way people are taught to do in an earthquake drill. Cover, I want to inform him. Please, duck and cover if I’m going to do this.

He doesn’t seem to be getting it. You can’t just be standing there when I do it, man! You’re gonna get hurt! Is what I would have shouted if he knew what it meant. Also, if shouting wasn’t an issue, my earlier guilt resurfacing with the freshly made memory.

With a resolve I’d never before had, I lean in closer to the man waiting behind the railing. He gawks, an anxious smile tugging at him.

“Ah—“ he mutters, pulling his hands toward his chest in mock defense. “Finisti mimare…?”

He squeaks once before going eerily quiet as I wrap a hand around the walkway, a painfully familiar feeling. My companion no doubt staring up at the palm overhead, now enclosing both him and his section of the platform.

Following his own vague directions, I slam a balled up fist against the wall to my side, the ensuing pain sending a shudder through my arm and deep into my chest. I bite my lip, fighting the urge to shout so as not to repeat my past mistakes.

Regrettably, I carry on. Elbowing the back wall with significantly more force, astounded when the metal shell of the structure actually starts to chip away. Jeez, it must have been seriously rusted for it to fall away this easily. I kick my right leg forward and feel my shoe bust through to the other side. This method is working, by some miracle.

Sunlight breaks through everywhere in thin, jagged patches. Made notable by the fact that I was not outdoors previously, and that last I checked, it had been late in the evening. The sky is gray and overcast, a single drop of rain snaking its way down my right cheek, quickly pursued by another. I inhale the fresh air, further ignoring the ache in my bones as I prepare myself to continue.

Rubble collapses overhead, cascading off the back of my hand as it avoids the fragile person underneath, just as I’d hoped it would.

Inevitably, the walkway he was standing on topples away with the rest of the structure, something I only register once the last of the dust and rubble subsides, freed completely from the confines of that damn metal box.

My chest heaves with effort, vision blurred and sounds fuzzy as I attempt to take in my new surroundings. I’m frozen in place, sitting reclined with an arm behind me for support and another out in front of me, hovering over thin air where a pathway once stood.

Oh my god, I— I just— I’ve pried the whole damn structure apart. Admittedly, something about that felt strangely empowering. Cathartic, even. Though it still didn’t entirely sit right with me.

My sight locks onto a subtle movement below my overturned hand. I swallow hard, tilting it up toward my face barely enough to see the small, dark haired man clinging consciously to it, both arms wrapped in a death grip around just one of my fingers. Everything in me tenses up, the last of my senses shattering helplessly.

He huffs in what honestly sounds like another laugh, grinning widely up at me with similarly wide eyes that gleam with a mix of both gratitude and urgency.

This is the face of the man who saved me. And he’s no taller than my hand.

“Er… eh.. h.. hello?” He calls, snapping me out of my trance to the sound of my own language being spoken. Copying mine the same way I had copied his.

I blink as if I’d just woken up from a dream, only to find myself still living it. “Ah, wha..?”

Hit with the tight cling of his lightweight grip and the urgency playing in his eyes, I take the hint, flushing once more as I lower my hand toward the safety of the ground.

His boots hit the rubble with a thud. Swiveling his head in several directions as he assesses our surroundings.

“Papae!” He exclaims, turning from the wreckage up toward me, the wrecker. I hadn’t yet seen him on the ground before, and it was humbling to say the least, the previously crystal clear details of his person made distant now that he wasn’t inches from my view.

As slowly as I possibly can, I readjust my position, joints relentlessly crying out in stiff protest, which I only hope doesn’t sound like bombs going off to the figure down below me, who had faltered when I’d raised my voice even slightly.

I’m now sitting cross legged on a heap of dust and metal, leaning over dramatically in order to better see the man below, who just barely makes it to my knees while standing. I try to massage away the after-aches in both my neck and hands, the latter of which are kept securely in my lap, knuckles bleeding red.

Hold on, is he cheering? This guy is now waving his arms around frantically, kicking at the air whilst making a whole slough of similar explosion sound effects through his teeth. Once again his behavior makes he curious as to his age, not that I have a way to ask it, really.

Despite the ache in my back, the soreness in my joints, the nausea and the headache and the stress and exhaustion piling over me all at once—I begin to laugh. Really laugh. Purely out of fondness, amused by his terribly infectious excitement. And when I tilt my head back downward, I find him there, already meeting my gaze, beaming up at me from below.

“What… are you?” I reiterate under a breath, though the inquiry had since taken on a new meaning. His diminutive stature was the main thing, yeah, but the added mystery of how he’d managed to do that interested me more. How effortlessly he could make me smile and laugh in the midst of what’s literally the most confused and scared I have ever been.

Deciding that was a question he had to respond to, the man presses a gloved hand to his chest.

“Ego sum Romanius,” he announces, each word carefully spaced as though it might help me decipher it. Surprisingly, it kind of did. Or perhaps it was the gesturing that helped spell it out.

My savior, whose name is apparently Romanius, redirects the motion up at me. And I note then how my shadow seems to loom over him, blocking out the light.

“I’m… Curtis,” my shaky, tired voice admits. He waves with so much enthusiasm that he almost trips over a section of rubble, finding his footing before brushing himself off.

The sky above is unfamiliar. The air around me is unfamiliar. And yet somehow, inexplicably, this grinning face below already feels like an old friend’s.

“Hello, Curtis!” He waves.

I return with a sheepish wave of my own. “Uh, salve, Romanius,” I reply, interrupted when he reaches out his hand in offering.

How this man continues to astound me remains a mystery, among countless others.

Painstakingly, I reach out with thumb and forefinger to accept the polite offer. The whole ‘shake’ aspect of a handshake is barely applied, but there’s warmth there all the same. I shudder at the feeling of it, and so does he.

{ July, 1988 }

It had been three years since the Shelter gained any new residents. By recent standards, this was record breaking.

Joey was the first to arrive. No older than six years old at the time, stumbling across the front porch one New Year’s Eve with a heavy coat on his shoulders and a poster with an address clenched in his trembling fist.

Next came Leon. Then Ethan. Then Karlan, Cleo, Bennett, Indie, Elizabeth, up until Maris’ arrival in the summer of ‘85. The two middle-aged women who ran the place working diligently to keep up with the sudden onslaught of Afflicted youth, most of whom had arrived as infants. Either heartlessly discarded as something inhuman or deemed too dangerous to survive on their own; brought to the Shelter by now ex-family members, frightened doctors, sometimes even complete strangers. But it was never a very loving exchange. And it was never an easy adjustment for them to make.

That three year streak of no arrivals finally broke the year Joey was about to turn seventeen. At least, according to the birthday he’d proudly declared for himself nearly a decade ago.

It ended the day that Cedar—a name they would also decide for themselves sometime much later—moved in. On the first warm day in April, traces of snow lacing the spring grass even as wild daisies sprouted up from underneath.

Mary, the caretaker generally favored among the younger kids, had broken the news to the lot of them one morning over breakfast. Hands gesturing nervously as if to physically illustrate herself burying the lede.

“I spotted the poor thing sneaking food off the porch last week,” she explained, glancing at the row of bright, curious expressions in front of her, young bodies leaning far over the table to listen more closely.

“It seems they thought the house was deserted, with the lights being off and all. They have yet to speak a word to either of us, but, we did finally manage to communicate and—well, I believe we are going to try moving them in today.”

Ethan, just two years younger than Joey, was the first to speak up. Glasses sliding down his nose as he read over Mary’s expression carefully, inadvertently imitating the characters from his favorite detective novels.

“And what makes you think they’re Afflicted?” He asked. It was a solid question. The other children nodded in mutual agreement.

Mary sighed. “Well… their Affliction appears static, and definitely internal. It has to do with their size.” She seemed to struggle with getting the last word out, as if she didn’t deal with the impossible every single day. Which is what was making the kids so nervous, that she wasn’t just saying it outright.

“What about it? Tell us already!” Karlan pressed, little Cleo beside him taking the opportunity to snatch a piece of food off his plate while he wasn’t paying attention. Keeping her upper set of arms crossed above the tabletop to pose as if she hadn’t done.

And so the nervous woman continued as was asked of her. “They happen to be much larger than the rest of you.” She paused, a deep worry painted over her face that didn’t seem frightened, just… maternal. “Judi and I’s current estimation is about fourteen feet… still a growing child, mind you.”

You would expect the room to go eerily silent, but instead this news was followed up by a chain of sudden noises.

Bennett coughed on his half-chewed food, Karlan’s temperature rose in surprise to such a degree that Indie started swatting at him with her napkin. The fork Ethan had been trying so hard to keep steady in his grasp finally slipping through, despite his best efforts to remain tangible enough to eat. Even the cup and silverware laid out in front of Elizabeth tipped and rattled respectively with her swell of astonishment and fear, her Affliction projecting her inward state outward as usual.

Even six-year-old Maris’ mouth hung open, revealing a dual set of razor sharp teeth that made Leon sitting next to her scoot his chair a bit further to the side.

But Joey? Joey was the only one there whose eyes were lit up with something other than concern. Grinning from ear to ear in a way that signaled danger to all those who knew him. The winged adolescent beamed, his mind already, unstoppably, made up. I’m gonna befriend the hell out of that kid, is what he promised to himself as he stood up from the table unnoticed over the commotion and headed upstairs to him and Ethan’s room.

His plan came to fruition two months later. Forced to wait because apparently, the new kid was much too paranoid to interact with for now, and the adults wanted to wait until they were ready for all the chaos and commotion that haunted these halls to come flooding in.

“We just don’t want to overwhelm them,” Mary spoke softly to Joey with a hand over his shoulder.

Every few weeks though he would pace outside their door. That is, the door to the new arrival’s room, the one sandwiched between the front entrance and the stairs. It made sense, stairs probably weren’t an option for them, and the front door had been made large enough to stuff any kind of luggage or large furniture item through. It worked out well.

But he wanted to sneak a glance at them so badly. He once tried from outside the house, but there was some kind of barrier or blockade in front of the window, obstructing it from inside. How odd. And even though he begged, dare he say pleaded for Ethan to poke his intangible head through the wall for just a fraction of a second, the boy only scoffed and returned to his propped-up books.

At last, after two straight months of this, the door had been left unlocked. One of the caretakers, Joey didn’t see who, tried to warn him that it could potentially be difficult to speak with them, but she also knew that nothing she could’ve said was going to stop him now.

Joey didn’t see her because he was already racing down the stairs, wings outstretched behind him as if to temper the harshness of each barreling footfall. Within seconds his hand was wrapped around the doorknob.

And then Joey entered the room the way he always seemed to, full presence at full volume, acting as if he’d already been there for ages.

Turning to catch sight of them, for perhaps the first time in his life, Joey was left utterly speechless.

The kid sat hunched into a corner with their knees hugged to their chest, and even then the sheer volume of them took up about two thirds of the room. Joey nearly tripped over a boot the height of his waist on the way in.

In the limited amount of space they weren’t taking up, there were a few scattered couch cushions (so that’s where those went) and blankets that had been haphazardly sewn together into some larger concoction. Though it probably wasn’t large enough still. Then again, it seemed that nothing in here was.

His bout of speechlessness didn’t last long. As soon as he regained his footing, Joey’s mouth started running, presumably completely detached from his actions as he continued looking the giant up and down. At the dirt brown hair that fell in waves just past their shoulders, which were held high up to their ears in apprehension, their tired hazel eyes watching him with a mix of confusion and alarm.

“Hey, woah, it’s so cool to finally meet you! You’re huge! That’s awesome! My name’s Joey, what’s yours?!” The surprisingly older of the two stammered as he held out a hand in polite offering. Looking at his target now, the palm on that hand was likely enough to swallow his head whole if it tried. Sick… was all Joey thought to himself.

All this kid did was stare wide-eyed at him, with such intensity that you might mistake them for a statue if they weren’t breathing every so often. Nothing. Relenting, he let his hand fall back to his side.

Someone who wasn’t Joey might have considered leaving right then, put off by the thick air of tension filling the already cramped space. Alas, this was not the case. He simply sauntered over to the opposite end of the room and plopped down on a couch cushion that had been left there on the floor, a few loose feathers shaking down with the motion.

He leaned forward, legs widely parted with his arms pressed firmly down between them and onto the cushion underneath for support.

Every question he’d been saving up until now came pouring out of him in one frenzied, drawn-out sentence.

“So what’s it like? Were you always this big? And—are you actually comfortable like that? Like isn’t it kinda cramped for you in here?”

Blink, blink.

“Judi said they found you in the woods. Were you really out there all alone…?” This last question of his trailed off, Joey somehow getting the impression that it wasn’t his talking that was the issue here, but merely the subject matter.

“Hey, are you into music?!”

He squinted hard at the face looming over him, neck craned way back in order to gauge any sort of change in reaction. With little to no results, his mind began wandering elsewhere, and he just as soon found himself staring fiercely back at them.

Blink.

“Hah! You blinked, I win!” Joey loudly announced, a finger pointed upward in accusation. Much to his surprise, the giant flinched backward in turn.

“Woah,” Joey huffed, his pointed hand moving downward before curling toward his chest. “Uh, sorry, I didn’t mean to like, startle you or anything. I just really wanna be friends with you.” There wasn’t an ounce of shame in his voice as he spoke the words aloud.

“You seem really cool,” he added.

For once, the towering figure shifted on their end of the room, the tension in their shoulders dropping a fraction as they did. The mere fact that they were moving at all made Joey giddy that he was doing something right.

An idea suddenly popped into his head, kickstarting his entire body into action as if it were a bolt of electricity.

“Wait here!” He instructed, nearly toppling over the same shoe a second time as he fled out the door in one swift motion. Leaving a startled and terribly confused giant in his wake.

They heard clunking overhead as Joey noisily ascended the staircase that ran both next to and above the room. Slowly, they leaned in close to track the movement as it went up, stopped, and then came down again.

He returned not a minute later with a decorated box in his hands, shutting the door behind him with a light kick.

The fourteen-foot presence in the room pretended they weren’t just leaned directly over the door, listening carefully in anticipation of his return.

Their line of sight drifted from Joey over to the box, where he’d begun to take things out and lay them on the floor around them both. Dozens of little plastic cases with messy writing scrawled on the fronts of each.

“This is my cassette collection. It’s not that big right now, cause I don’t get to go into town that often, too noticeable, but anyway…”

Joey picked one off the floor and held it up for them to see, mainting a good distance from their face so as not to spook them. Again. Even still, their upper body leaned backward as though the object no bigger than their finger might somehow be dangerous. Joey continued, undeterred by such things as ‘social discomfort.’

“This one’s a classic, The Clash, have you heard them?!” Joey didn’t wait for a response, shaking his head at his own foolishness, long hair falling into his eyes as he did.

“Psh, what am I saying? Of course you haven’t. You’re in luck, dude, I’d kill to hear this masterpiece for the first time again.”

The tape was pushed into the player with a soft yet satisfying click. Then static, followed by a deceptively quiet voice counting “one, two, three, four…” Before the furious strumming of ‘White Riot’ blared out from the minuscule speaker at full, ear-splitting volume. Raw, unfiltered, and nothing short of perfect in Joey’s not-so-humble opinion.

The smile quickly fell from Joey’s lips as his silent audience pressed two massive hands against either side of their head, twisted into a pained expression with their eyes squeezed shut. Joey swiftly went to shut it off, the music ceasing instantly with another gentle click.

Heartbroken was a fitting word for how Joey must’ve looked right then, looking up at his companion as they gradually, painstakingly, lifted their hands from their ears.

Inside of him, however, the excitement of a potential challenge was forming like a distant storm front.

“Okay, okay,” Joey rambled on, sifting through the tapes that now laid scattered unevenly across the floor. “If it’s the noise you don’t like, I’m afraid that knocks out about ninety percent a’ these…” He concluded with an air of disappointment. Though not directed at anyone specific, more so at the situation itself.

Primed for take two of this haphazard experiment, two more cassettes were produced out of the very bottom of what remained in the box. Joey dusting them off before hoisting them high in the air for his company to view properly, same as he’d done before. Only this time, they didn’t flinch. Progress.

The movement was slow, but in such a tight space, it seemed that much more significant. A hand lifted from the floor, index finger shakily pointing toward the cassette in Joey’s left hand. It took everything in him not to jump up and celebrate right then and there.

Okay, it may not have been a very in-depth exchange, but as far as communication went, actual gesturing was a major step up from just staring silently across a room.

No further questions asked, Joey tossed the rejected cassette aside and slotted the song of choice into its place. Closing up the little panel and flicking the button on top of the tape player.

Once again, a woosh static as it whirred to life. Except it lingered around much longer this time, gradually ebbing into what almost sounded like leaves rustling. Which in turn began a flowy descent into the tinny, rainy-day strums of some early stage grunge song. Kinda hippie, if Joey was being honest.

“Yah,” He interrupted, unimpressed. “I don’t really listen to this stuff, but…”

He was caught off guard by a dull thud, turning his attention upward to see their tall figure slumped against the wall, eyes closed. Not squeezed shut like before, instead they just looked so… incredibly peaceful. Really? Joey wondered, raising an eyebrow. This is the stuff you like?

A smirk. “Oh well, guess we just have different tastes. That’s not so bad.”

They peered down at him through one half-lidded eye, seemingly to show they were still listening. The thoughtfulness of it warmed Joey’s heart.

And he was thrilled, of course, but not nearly as thrilled as when he casually asked through a passive chuckle “You really are into this, huh?” And in a tone so quiet he almost didn’t catch it, the kid replied:

Woo I’m nervous. But uh, hope you enjoy it, at least? Ooph. I’m going to rest now.

Introduction

𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧

Camp Oxorry Summer Market, a wooden sign proudly declares in etched, swooping letters.

The sign had been strung up with strands of floss. At least, that’s what the box they found it in said it was called. Swinging idly in the summer heat as wafts of its cooling minty aroma snake their way down the colorful streets and toward the hot, unshaded areas. On which you’ve taken up your usual spot on a nearby corner slab, strumming a string instrument of your own making with a pistachio shell bowl set aside, collecting trace amounts of change throughout the day by the kind Polk who could spare it. Mumbling your passive thank-you’s every so often between lyrics.

You can sense how soon the shops will begin to close up for the evening by the way the sun is just itching to set behind the surrounding grass, your mind reluctantly wandering elsewhere.

Nearly a year after the incident and perhaps a part of you is still just trying to process it all.

It’s not long before a familiar voice breaks through your hazy state. But what really startles you awake is being embraced in a hug so tight you nearly drop your instrument.

“Martin!” Your little sister calls as you habitually return the hug with one arm, the other preoccupied with setting the nearly escaped instrument down in tact. “Hey, April,” you mutter lovingly through a pair of sleeves.

Her arrival is promptly followed by an equally young girl in a ladybug patterned cape, staring wide-eyed at you in that usual unnerving way she does. “And hello to you too, Asha,” you say as your sister pulls away. The caped girl raises both her arms into the air, waving them around frantically in a gesture you’ve since understood to be her own personal form of greeting.

The last to come rushing out of the remnants of the dispersed crowd of shoppers are the girl’s parents. Or as you’ve come to know them, the undeniably kindest neighbors in the world. Tired and sweating from having chased the little escapees all the way over here.

Sumi is the first to scold them, as usual, her dark piercing eyes leaving no mystery as to where young Asha gets hers from.

“Don’t run off like that!” The exhausted mother chides.

Carefully, you pick yourself off the curb, hand pressed against your back in anticipation of the sudden jolt of pain you tend to get after sitting down for such a long time.

Much to your surprise, it doesn’t come. So you wonder if maybe the day’s ache has just been magically hugged out of you.

“Thank you for looking after her for the afternoon,” you reiterate for the fourth time that day.

A tall mustachioed man pipes up in his wife’s place, his voice as still and soothing as cold water. Goodness knows you could use some right now.

“It was absolutely no problem,” Kian assures you. “She’s an absolute joy to have.”

“Mm. It’s good for Asha to gain some friends as well,” Sumi calmly adds on. To which Asha sticks out her tongue in pointed defiance, causing you to chuckle, despite yourself.

The loud rustling of coins beside you catches your attention, and you turn your head to see your sister rifling through the bowl you’d set out that morning.

“Woah!” April exclaims, picking a few pieces up and letting them fall back into the dish. “This is way more than last week! What on earth were you playing?!”

All things considered, she wasn’t exaggerating. You’d earned almost twice as much today as you typically do. And you know exactly the reason why, too; because the weather was a lot nicer this week and more people were out enjoying it.

Yet, despite knowing this, you instead tell your sister that it was the fault of you playing her “thunder song.” A smirk breaking across your freckled face at the growing expression of wonder in hers. “I told you people’d like it. You’re a natural.”

The pride on April’s face is unmatched. You envy her expressiveness, but you love her for it so much more.

Meanwhile, Sumi and Kian are talking amongst themselves, drawing up loose plans about what to have for dinner, when they pause and turn toward you.

“Sweetheart, did the two of you want to stay for dinner?” Sumi offers like the most considerate person ever. At the same time, April lets out a lengthy yawn, so you decide to politely brush them off with “That’s alright. We’ll just grab something on the way home to pack.”

Kian raises an eyebrow. “Oh? Are you two off again?” Tone laced with a worry you wish they wouldn’t get so often.

April looks at him, her stormy gray eyes lit up with enthusiasm. “Mhm!”

“You know how it is,” you tell the worried father. Knowing full well that he doesn’t.

In an attempt to comfort his nerves, you follow it up with a dismissive wave of your hand. “Not too long,” you assure him. “Probably just for the weekend.”

Both him and Sumi can’t hide their mutual look of concern, of which you decide to pay no mind. It’s simply in their nature to be so caring, you have to remind yourself. You just so happen to lead different lives, and that is perfectly acceptable. If only they could understand that too. Oh well, at least they’re trying.

“Thank you so so much,” you repeat once more for good measure. Pointing out to them that their little ladybug’s just run off again while they were busy chatting. “That way,” you direct them, parting ways to the sight of the frantic couple scrambling to go collect their runaway kid.

Your sister is practically dancing in circles around you as you clear up your spot, taking the shell under your arm and your instrument case in the other. She’s recounting her day to you in thorough detail, how she was able to run again through the tulip fields our neighbor’s worked in. The way she speaks of a peaceful flower field, you’d think it was a scene straight out of an action film. Her hands gesturing frantically with each twist and turn in the apparent plot.

She stops when you rest a hand on her shoulder, the ends of her hair brushing against your knuckles as she turns around to face you. “Say, how about we get a little extra something today?” You think to suggest with a playful tilt of your head.

“Really?!”

You shrug your weary shoulders as if the whole thing were merely inevitable. “It’s your song, after all. You deserve the credit.”

“Pshh.” This comment is returned with a welcome nudge in the side, laughter erupting out of you both. The deep-set exhaustion in yours catches you off guard, if just for a moment.

“C’mon,” you start to encourage her, sliding your hand off her shoulder and into an empty pocket. “You wanna try some sweet pear or something?”

April licks her lips. “Mmm… that sounds perfect.” At that, you roll your eyes with nothing short of fondness.

“You would’ve said that for any food I suggested just now, wouldn’t you?”

April nods unashamedly.

𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧

Against your better judgement, you’ve asked April to hold the pear jar. She tucks it safely into the brown satchel that seems to go everywhere she does these days, slotted between a tree-bark bound sketchbook and a beloved stuffed toy. Something your parents knit out of cotton threads a lifetime ago.

Side by side, you trek over the dirt trails of Oxorry, passing by Polk whose job it is to light the street lamps at night, scraping rough paper against the ends of matchsticks. Some of them even wave down to you, the few who can address you by name wishing luck on your travels.

From there the rest of the walk is as easy as routine; follow the sound of rushing water until you reach the stream, then hike alongside it until a small green tent appears in the vicinity, surrounded by various rocks and dandelions.

It’s here that you begin to pack your things. Running through the checklist of items before your sister too-confidently finishes it for you, proving to know it by heart.

“Right, right, world traveler over here,” you tease. A selfish part of you wishing she’d have forgotten it all, just so you could teach it to her for the first time again.

Except this time around, something is different. The air goes suffocatingly quiet as you shove an extra shirt into your bag, and April is sitting on her now empty bed, drumming her fingers absently against the pear jar situated in her lap. In fact her silence is so loud that you almost don’t hear her when she remarks: “You know, it’s actually pretty nice… having somewhere to go back to.”

For a moment, you just stare at the tent wall, pausing halfway through forcing the snap on your bag shut. Then, without a word, you move to the opposite end of the space and settle next to her on her mattress. Wrapping her in a tight side hug as she rests a head against your shoulder. Looking at her, those same stormy eyes as yours, her skin the same freckled brown, hands nervous and fidgeting as if she’s said something wrong.

“I’m starting to think so too,” you admit. Not only to her but to yourself, as you both decide to stay in this position a while longer.

When you feel the soft pressure on your shoulder release, you stand back up with effort, grabbing the stuffed bag off your bed—a bedroll held onto it by a trusty safety pin—and slinging the entirety of it onto your sore back with immediate regret.

“You’ve still got the nomad in you though, right? Or have I got to carry you all the way there?” You joke, the energy mercifully returning to April’s face with an exasperated scoff. A good sign that you’ve succeeded at brother-ing. For once.

April springs back up to a stand, practically bouncing on her heels. “Yeah right! C’mon, I’ll probably beat you there—“ you barely catch the end of her sentence as she unzips the tent and stumbles outside.

“I hope so…” you mutter under a breath, stepping out join her with luggage in hand.

Purely out of habit, you end up glancing back at the flimsy green tent before returning to the trail. The vibrant colors of Oxorry fading into dense greens and ashy browns as the campgrounds grow farther and farther away. Finally vanishing from sight after clearing a couple of ferns.

𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧

Exactly as planned, as soon as the last few inches of sunlight fade away, the first fireflies begin to flick up out of the grass, the latter of which towers over you to either side. These bugs will be the aids to light your way through the dark. At least until the edges of the dirt trail give way to deep wood territory.

With your sister on your left, it becomes impossible for you to see her. The eye on that half of your face having been permanently scarred shut for as long as you’ve been traveling these woods.

Fortunately, April’s quiet humming is there to mark her presence, trying to match the pitch of the lightning bugs flying around overhead. After a minute or two of this, there’s a light tug on your jacket sleeve, a request for your attention.

“Hey, Mar-mar.”

“Hm?”

“Did you know some fireflies visit the flowers so much that they basically work as pollinators?”

You turn your head all the way to the side in order to see her out of your one working eye. “Do they?” You ask. “Who told you that?”

“Asha! She knows so much about bugs… and she’s really cool, too. I like hanging out with her.”

You’re practically bursting with joy at the thought of April finally spending time with a friend, much like Sumi had been. Except, unlike Sumi, you keep this thought to yourself. “Good,” is all you manage to respond with. That and an assured nod, like the expert socializer you are.

April gazes at you from the side, scooting a bit closer with her hands clasped in front of her, the way she always does when she wants you to say ‘yes’ to whatever it is she’s about to suggest.

“Don’t you think you and Asha’s brother should hang out again sometime too..?”

Almost instantly, you can sense yourself flushing with shame. “What?!” You quickly stammer out, turning away with a hand to your neck. “Uhh, well, last time didn’t go so well, did it.”

April kicks a pebble with her shoe that skitters up ahead. “So what! Honestly I thought it was funny, and so did he and Asha! Who cares that you thought he was a girl for like, five mon—“

Her words are muffled when a hand is placed firmly against the side of her face. Your own face might as well be on fire. “Stop. Please,” you hopelessly beg of her.

April swats your hand away. “Fine, whatever! I’m just saying it wasn’t as bad as you seem to think it was. Plus he was totally fine with it! Have you ever seen Ditya angry?”

Your focus drifts off into the distance, the wobbly beginnings of a grin that you desperately want to tear off now forming on your lips. “You’re right, I don’t know how he does it…”

You can’t see the sideways look she’s definitely giving you right now, but then, you don’t want to anyway.

“Just think about it.” She concludes with a lighthearted sigh, allowing your defenses to drop. The next stage of the walk continues on in shared silence.

“Hey,” April starts after a beat.

“Hm?” You respond as usual.

“Did you know both fireflies and ladybugs are actually kinds of beetle…?”

Even though you genuinely did not know that, you still make it a point to gape your mouth a little wider than necessary. “No way,” you answer dramatically. “I know!” She squeals. And you can’t help but laugh to yourself in turn. “We’ve all been lied to!”

𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧

Look, you didn’t lie exactly when you told everyone you were returning to the woods for a couple days. They know you only live in Oxorry on and off. That being said, you maybe weren’t telling them the whole truth either.

What you neglected to mention to Sumi or Kian or the lamp lighters or any other Polk you’ve gotten acquaintanced with this past year was that you’re moving through these woods on your way to the cabin. Will’s cabin.

And you’ve just now arrived at your destination, a wooden skyscraper amidst the towering trees; Wrapped with vines and moss as if the earth is slowly trying to reclaim it. The warm light emitting from inside through foggy windows welcomes you like an old friend.

Reaching those windows is a whole other ordeal. Scaling up every vine and loose pipe all while carrying your sister on your back. It’s true she may be able to run around again as of a week or two ago, but with her leg still healing, climbing is out of the question.

Finally, after landing on the windowsill, already out of breath, it’s time to begin lugging your belongings up the rest of the way. At the edge of the sill sits a handy handmade pulley system; a long piece of twine on a hand-crank wheel that, somewhere far far below you, attaches to the fish hook you had tied all your stuff to earlier.

The pulley system wasn’t half bad, actually. The twine loosening in your grip as it moves along until eventually it comes to a stop. April helps you as you haul your respective bags—and instrument case—onto the ledge. The whole time sneaking glances at the vast window pane standing directly behind you.

She slings her crossbody bag over her shoulder as you settle back into the straps of your own, case in hand. Mentally preparing yourself for what is truly the very last part of making the long trip over here.

April raises her fist and knocks once as loudly as she can on the window.

Then twice.

From somewhere deep inside, you hear the sound of distant thunder gradually moving closer. So close in fact that you can start to feel the paint-chipped surface shake beneath you. Concluding with the appearance of four massive fingers, carefully sliding the window open to reveal a familiar face looming over you.

The human leans forward on its arms, looking down at the both of you with a soft gaze unbefitting of his stature. April squeals with joy. Your stomach churns.

“Good morning, you two,” greets Will in a hushed voice. Though from extreme caution or just old age, it’s hard to tell.

There’s a pleasant, savory aroma pouring out from inside. Along with a strange feeling that’s difficult for you to describe. It’s like an ache, maybe. Or rather, the sudden absence of one. Is this what ‘home’ is supposed to feel like? You wonder.

No, this must be what April had described to you the other night.

It’s the comfort of even having a home to return to.

Your friend above smiles with impossible warmth.

It follows the 9cm-high nomadic siblings April and Martin as they have a run-in with their very first human one fateful night. An old heartbroken cabin keeper, Will, who was just as unaware of their kind as they were of his. Until now. But just maybe, they’ll each find the part of themselves they’d been missing. And what started as a moment of mutual panic will gradually develop through the seasons into some strange little found family.

More to come and much more to learn~!

But anyway, whoever is here now, I hope you enjoy this silly world of mine. I think you’re going to like it.

~•~

Read the prologue here!

~•~

Also—Here’s some art! I’m no visual artist, I’m only a writer, so I just did these doodles for the fun of it.

Meet April + guests. 🌱🐞

Hello gt people. I’m kind of new around here, I didn’t even know there was a name for this kind of thing until yesterday. When I did find out, I couldn’t help but think of this silly old poem I wrote some time ago. It seems like something you all will like. Who knows.

It’s so lovely to meet you. You seem like such wonderful and creative people.

— Sincerely, Lemon 💛