#futuregazed

“no, they don’t,” john whispers in agreement, fingers curling gently in sadie’s fur. they’re sitting far too close, out in syb’s backyard. they’re talking, again, about what john can’t remember and what he can, about those feelings that well in his chest when something reminds him of an unknown trauma.

it hurts to know that sybll can relate.

“who did this to you?”

a hand reaches out to brush gently against his face, thumb edging just lightly against the edge of the bruise. there’s a restrained anger in the tone of their voice.

this is the first time margo has allowed sybll to see them as they truly are: a winged beast with too many eyes and blurry features otherwise.

they are standing on the edge of a cliff in scotland, staring out at the never-ending sea. sybll and sadie are both in sweaters they had not been wearing previously and margo at least has the decency to wear boy shorts and a sports bra despite their body being entirely smooth and somewhat hard to discern.

their wings flex then spread as a heavy breeze passes through that smells strongly of the sea. they look over as syb speaks and a frown forms on the mouth that has moved to the base of their throat, all of their eyes speaking in surprise. they try to keep the phantom hand effect of their voice away from him, but it still feels like fingers threading his hair and gently petting his cheek.

“sybll.”

This is bonding, Fox thinks idly. He’s never really been comfortable with the art of it (been on many buses with other people to know that he’s poor at the subject) and this time is no different. He merely can only watch as Sybill sorts out their new stock (hand cut crystals from a girl in B.C) with methodical practice, pausing every-so-often to admire their gleam, their possible beatific qualities. He’s just a kid, but he doesn’t remind Fox of one. 

Instead, the only thing that comes to mind is a fear-driven mink, pushed into a corner with no choice but to show its teeth and then be condemned for such an act. He’s seen the kid come in with different states to his skin: discolorations that aren’t bruises alone, gum in his unruly hair, once: some oatmeal-esque goop on his head, shoulders, and dog. 

What middle ground was there to find when light and dark were polar opposites with no offered inbetween?

"Uh, yeah -- sorry,” (he doesn’t sound like it; maybe a close cousin to condescending) “but no dogs allowed.”

Ignoring the aggressively red vest that proclaims WORKING SERVICE DOG - DO NOT PET/DO NOT DISTRACT and various other instructions of a nature he a) does not care for and b) does not care for so badly he used it as two examples. Fuck the FDA.

(It’s the ADA, Jack’s voice floats through, producing the words in bold black-and-white lettering behind his eyeballs so his brain takes note.