#rmg91

Because he has friends now, and that's even crazier. He goes to party after party after party, so many he loses count (it's still not as many as Poppy asks him to come to, but bright lights and loud music are always going to tie knots in his stomach and knots in his throat) and there are trolls besides Poppy who actually talk to him at these parties, who dance with him and drink with him and laugh with him, tell him jokes and stories and listen to him when he tells his own.

And he sings now.

In the quiet dark of the bunker, where no one else can hear, he sings, his hands shaking and sweating and his heart in his throat, crashing in his ears, but he sings anyway because he's been silent for twenty years now and he is not going to be afraid anymore.

It all feels like a dream.

And maybe it is.

Good things don't just happen to him, after all. Good things don't just fall into his lap like this, all nice and neat and perfect, all wrapped up in bright paper with shiny red bows on top, good things don't come his way, good things aren't meant for him, and maybe he should hold his breath a little longer, maybe he should steel himself a little harder, clench his fists a little tighter, maybe it really is all a dream, but—

—but if it's a dream, it's the most beautiful one he has ever had.

And he never wants to wake up.

And the craziest thing of all—crazier than the blue troll in the mirror every morning, crazier than the friends outside his door every day, crazier than his own voice echoing and echoing and echoing through the empty rooms every night—is that he is in Poppy's room, he is in Poppy's bed, and she's curled up at his side, fast asleep with her head on his shoulder and her hand in his and her eyes squeezed shut, long black lashes fluttering lightly against her freckled, rosy cheeks. Her pink hair is plastered flat to the side of her face, sticking straight up like a tree, and Branch has never loved her more than he does right now, he's never loved her more than when she's like this—her favorite blue dress wrinkled, her makeup smudged, her topknot in tangles, and a small, sweet smile on her lips even in her sleep.

He knows he should wake her—the party's only an hour off, and she always likes to show up early, to be the first troll in the door, to say hello to everyone, to hug and talk and laugh with everyone before the music takes over, and she hasn't even put on her new dress, and she'll want to brush out her hair and redo her makeup when she gets a look in the mirror, and God knows he has plenty of things he needs to be doing, God knows he has so much work, he can't let her lay around on him all night—but she looks so tired (and so beautiful) and all he can do is tuck her fuzzy purple quilt around her bare shoulders, press a soft kiss to her brow, and shut his eyes, too.