Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Samira was, first and foremost, a goth.

This was how she’d chosen to define herself from the moment she’d been able to buy her own cheap eyeliner. It had been a conscious decision, because sure, she liked the fashion, but she liked more the look on people’s faces when they saw her. Confusion. A first, second, and third look. Go ahead and try to define me. You can’t.

This was the expression on the mustachioed face of “Mayor” Lewis as he met Samira on her grandfather’s derelict farm.

Good.

“Er, items in the box will be sold,” Lewis finished lamely. “Anything else I can do for you? All you need to do is ask.”

Samira stared him down. If she was being honest, the amount of work this place needed was utterly overwhelming. But she would rather die than admit that to this guy. “No. I’m good.”

Lewis nodded absentmindedly, and then added, “Your grandfather was a pillar of this community, you know.”

Samira did in fact know. Her mother used to talk about it all the time before she died, shortly before he did. Samira said nothing.

“He fit right in around here,” Lewis babbled on. “No one even cared that he was Gotoro.”

Samira glared. So that was the game, was it?

“Did you say you grew up in the city?” Lewis attempted.

He was trying to feel her out. Was she a red-blooded patriot or one of those ruthless savages?

Let him wonder. “I didn’t say.”

Lewis cleared his throat. “Well. If you need anything at all.” He turned, waving as he went, and left Watten Farm.

Samira gritted her teeth and turned to the other person who was on, arguably, her property. “How about you, you got any stupid questions?”

The forty-something redhead had immediately struck Samira as being pretty down-to-earth and chill, but she also hadn’t intervened in that stupid conversation, so Samira was feeling salty.

But Robin just stared out over the overrun weed pit.

“Hello?” Samira said testily.

“Oh, what? Sorry.” Robin uncrossed her arms and turned. “Lewis is gone?”

Samira felt marginally bad. “Yeah. What are you looking at?”

“Just thinking about your farm. You’ve got some good wood and stone out there.” Robin nodded at the rock-ridden field. “If I were you, I’d keep it for later. Never know what kind of building projects you’ll have.”

Samira snorted. “Do I look like I’m the type of person who builds shit?”

“Honestly, no,” Robin said, not unkindly. “But if you want to run this place, you’re going to have to pick up some skills.”

Samira had some skills. “Maybe.”

Robin gestured to the metal garbage can full of clean but worn tools. “Do you know how to use those?”

She remembered something about how to use an ax from her short-lived tenure as a girl scout, but Samira had to admit that the pickax and scythe were intimidating. Her instinct was to close up like an oyster and reject Robin’s offer. She would have, back in the city. Goths didn’t need normie help.

But the problem was…she actually liked Robin. There weren’t many straightforward blue-collar women in Samira’s life. For the first time in a long time, Samira didn’t want to be rude.

“Kinda. Not really.”

Robin smiled a little. “I didn’t want to assume. Do you want a hand?”

“That’d be really nice,” Samira said reluctantly. “Thank you.”

“Don’t worry about it.” Robin took the ax out of the garbage can and meandered over to a dead root that was sticking perilously out of the ground. “Lewis wasn’t lying about how excited we are about having you in this town. I loved your grandfather. He’s the one who told me I should pursue carpentry.”

“Really?” Samira took the scythe, appreciated for a moment how awesome she must look, and tried to find a good grip on it.

“Yeah, not exactly a traditional career path.”

Samira tried to remember if her grandfather was particularly encouraging toward her. All she remembered was feeling safe around him. Maybe that was the same.

“Robin, can I ask you a weird question?” Samira said suddenly.

“How weird is it?”

“Am I the only brown person in this town?”

“Oh, that’s not a weird question.” Robin drew back and severed the root with one neat swing. “My husband is black. And our daughter. Um…I think that’s about it in Pelican Town though. Maybe Gus, but he might just be very Italian.”

Samira’s heart sank into her gut. It was bad to be the only person of color in a town—it was almost worse this way, so her distinguishing feature was that she was Gotoro. She gave the scythe an experimental swing, and to her surprise, beheaded a particularly tall weed.

“Not bad,” Robin commented. “Just choke up a little bit on there and—there you go—spread your hands out.”

Samira did what she said, and aimed her swing lower. The weeds fell before her.

“Nice,” said Robin decisively.

Samira took a probably outsized amount of satisfaction from that. “Thanks.”

“Swing it back and forth, so you get the most out of every motion,” Robin said, miming the action for her with the ax. “Now I can’t stay long—let’s talk about pickaxe safety.”

Chapter Text

Sam had turned his face toward the sun at some point after the last Game Over and hadn’t opened his eyes again. Spring was good. Winter around here always seemed to last forever, and this was the first really nice day so far this year, and he wanted to relish it.

“You’re gonna burn like a tomato,” Sebastian said.

Sam opened his eyes to look at his friend, who was lighting a cigarette. “So fuckin’ what, man, I’ve been wasting away.” The allergies would catch up to him before too long, but nothing was blooming yet.

Sebastian rolled his eyes, muttering around the cig, “You gonna start the level again or what?”

“You can’t be Tortris Champion of the World with low vitamin D,” Sam said, pressing the button and watching the shapes start to fall.

“I’m pretty sure you can,” said his other friend, Abigail, and he could see out of the corner of his eye that she tossed her hair in that way of hers, so carefully cultivated to look careless that it circled back around to being painfully deliberate. “Like, e-athletes aren’t known for their outdoorsiness.”

“I don’t need vitamin D,” Sebastian grumbled. “I miss winter. I miss the dark.”

“Wow, you’re like, so edgy,” Abigail said with sarcastic admiration.

“How do I be as cool and emo as you, Sebastian?” Sam chimed in without looking up.

“Shut the fuck up,” Sebastian said, but with a little good humor. Sam heard Abigail giggle. He smiled at his game.

“Hey, look,” Abigail said.

Sam didn’t look up, but he could see (or maybe sense) his friends turning toward the path out of the woods.

“Who is that?” Abigail gasped.

“That’s…gotta be the new farmer? I guess?” Sebastian said, but he didn’t sound too sure.

“The new what?” Sam muttered, scooting another Tortris block where it belonged.

“I literally told you guys yesterday,” Sebastian scoffed. “My mom said the abandoned farm where that old guy used to live—apparently his granddaughter moved back in, gonna fix the place up.”

The old man. Sam remembered him from when he was a kid. There was something about the old man that bothered him, though…what was it?

“She’s gonna pass by us!” Abigail said, and she would never squeak, but she was close to it now. “Should we talk to her?”

“You can do whatever you want, Abigail,” Sebastian scoffed.

It wasn’t that the old man was a bad person or something, but there was something about him that was…off? Sam couldn’t remember, though, and this Tortris level was getting harder.

“I’m gonna do it.” She was determined.

“Okay?” Sebastian was getting less amused and more annoyed.

“Yeah,” Abigail said, and then out of the corner of Sam’s eye he saw her body language change. “Oh man—hi! Oh my Yoba, your outfit is amazing.”

“Uh—” said a new voice, and a new black-clad form drifted into Sam’s peripheral vision. He was never going to finish the level at this rate.

“Trad-goth, right? That jewelry is gorgeous. And I love your hair.”

“Can you back off a little?” said the new voice. “Personal space?”

“Please excuse her, she’s like, a manic pixie dream girl,” said Sebastian’s voice, cool as a cucumber.

“Oh, say that again, I’ll shank you,” Abigail said lightheartedly. “Anyway, hi, I’m Abigail. That’s Sebastian, and the guy who won’t look up from Tortris is Sam.”

“I am so close to beating this level,” Sam assured the group. This is what his mom would call rude, but honestly it’d be game over one way or another soon.

“I’m…I’m Samira,” said the voice.

What kind of a name was Samira—

“Shit,” Sam said, because he’d misplaced a block, and the level was over. He looked up.

Elvira was goth and sexy. Morticia Addams was goth and sexy. Of course they were sexy, Sam was a human man, right? But that was about all the exposure to goth girls Sam had ever had until now, and they were sexy on purpose. Samira though…

Samira wore black boots and tight black jeans with one knee ripped out, and a faded black skull t-shirt hand-cut in a deep v-neck. The v-neck didn’t show anything though—there was another sort-of-see-through shirt underneath, and layers of silver necklaces over that with pendants shaped like moons and spiders and shit. Over everything was a black leather jacket with stud spikes on the yoke. Her face was heart-shaped and brown, her hair jet-black and carefully crafted into a spiky, voluminous crown.

Hot damn. She was sexy.

“So did you beat it, or…” she said.

“Beat…” The fuck was she talking—oh! “Oh the Tortris—no. But it’s cool.” He slipped the little handheld console into his pocket. “I’m getting better. It’s nice to meet you.”

Samira looked…shifty. She was glancing between the three of them. Paranoid, maybe. Maybe, if the creeping suspicion in Sam’s gut was right, she had reason to be. “Thanks. Um. Nice to meet you all too…do you know where the general store is? I know this town isn’t that big, but—”

“Not only do I know where it is, I live there.” Abigail pointed to the store across the courtyard. “It’s that one. My dad will hook you up, don’t even worry about it.”

“Uh, thanks.” The barest little shred of sincerity slipped past, Sam observed. She started to walk away, raising a hand in goodbye. “I’ll see you guys around, I guess.”

“Bye,” Sebastian offered as she walked away.

“I like her,” Abigail decided.

“You just want to steal her look,” Sebastian returned.

“Two things can be true!” Abigail laughed. “Shit. She’s cute, though, right?”

Abigail, as she’d proudly told the two of them last year, was bisexual.

“Maybe. I wonder what she’s hiding.” Sebastian looked after her with one of his looks that he thought was inscrutable. He wasn’t inscrutable to Sam, though. Sebastian thought she was sexy too. “What do you think, Sam, what’s the vibe?”

Sam was pretty good at vibe checks. He might not know what he was feeling all the time, but he could usually clock other people. Unfortunately, there was one thing Sam was almost certain about that was going to be a major damper on his ability to correctly vibe check Samira.

Sam swallowed. “Did she look Gotoro to you guys?”

Abigail’s eyebrows shot up, and even Sebastian’s mouth dropped open a little.

The old man on the farm had been Gotoro. It made Sam uneasy because his father was a soldier, fighting the evil forces of the Empire across the Gem Sea. The only vibe check Sam was going to get off Samira was the swirling morass of attraction and fear in the pit of his own stomach.

Chapter Text

“I can certainly help you with seeds.”

The man that Samira had learned was Abigail’s dad and also the “Pierre” of “Pierre’s General Store” smiled at her over his glasses. He hadn’t flinched at her fashion or her skin color when she’d come in a few days ago for some groceries, after meeting those other townies. If Samira had to guess, the only color this guy saw was gold.

Samira deflated a little. She’d come in ready for a fight, partly because that was her usual modus operandi and partly because for some reason she’d built up the idea of buying seeds in her head as a monumental task. “Cool. That’s…good.”

“I imagine you’ll want a bulk order?” Pierre suggested hopefully.

Samira did in fact want that, so she told Pierre what she had in mind and tried not to flinch at the price. Anything was better than Joja. She’d stopped at Joja the other day for a soda because she’d been over there anyway, to ask about getting her pickaxe an upgrade. The manager had come out to talk to her personally, which she did not care for at all.

She’d also seen that gangly blond dude, Sam, mopping up a spill, jamming out to something in his headphones. He had not noticed her.

Not that it mattered if he did.

“Give me a few minutes to get everything together for you,” Pierre asked. “You can always keep browsing while you wait.”

“Yeah, sure,” Samira said, wandering away from the counter.

This place wasn’t much more than a bodega. Maybe more like a bodega-garden store. There wasn’t much to see, and Samira had seen it all before, but she meandered through the shelves anyway, before spotting something she hadn’t noticed yet.

On a door hanging ajar in one wall was the familiar symbol of Yoba.

Samira wasn’t really religious anymore, but she was bored and curious. She went through the door.

The hallway led to another door currently ajar that was ornately painted. Much more Ferngill Republic than the geometric style she was familiar with, but then again, the last time she’d gone to a service with her dad had been like, years ago. Just after Mom died, maybe. How was she supposed to know what an altar room was supposed to look like?

Quietly, she pushed open the door.

“So I told her that she better not go dyeing her hair like some kind of clown,” said a voice as the door opened. Four women were gathered in the room, Robin and three others, standing in a circle with their purses as if they were about to leave at any moment. A memory floated into Samira’s mind—her own mother in the same pose, standing for twenty minutes chatting in the grocery store.

“The purple is already pretty audacious,” commented a strawberry-blonde lady.

“And it never seems to grow out!” the first woman went on. She was…Samira had seen the tradwife videos. This woman would fit right in. “I swear, she’s going to end up like that new farmer.”

Samira clenched her jaw.

“I haven’t met her yet, what do you mean?” asked the oldest woman there, who looked to be in her fifties and was wearing practical clothing covered in pet hair.

“I’ve only seen her,” Tradwife said. Had to be Abigail’s mom, right? “You wouldn’t believe what she wears.”

Robin looked up and caught Samira’s eye. Her mouth fell open. “Uh…Caroline?”

“She’s got some kind of devil-worshiping aesthetic going,” Caroline went on, as if she hadn’t heard Robin. “How is that practical for farm work, I ask you? She certainly won’t fit in around here.”

“Caroline!” Robin said sharply.

“What?” Caroline demanded, and then looked over her shoulder in the direction of Robin’s nod. “I—oh! Er, hello.”

Samira sniffed. “I won’t fit in? That’s a shame.”

“Now I’m sure she didn’t mean that,” said the older woman soothingly.

“I was only wondering how you managed to farm in all that…jewelry!” Caroline said brightly. The pause before jewelry was subtle, but it was there.

Samira shrugged one shoulder. Her insides were boiling, but she wasn’t about to give anyone in this room the satisfaction of seeing her mad.

“Are you here for our aerobics class?” the strawberry-blonde woman asked. “I’m afraid it’s over.”

That explained everyone’s unwillingness to leave, this was probably the only time these four ever got together reliably.

“No, I just followed the signs.” Samira wandered farther into the room, toward the altar, looking it over appraisingly. Why gold? It just looked gaudy. The one she’d seen in her father’s place of worship was intricately carved, gorgeous. This one was…ironically, it looked cheap.

“I wouldn’t expect to find you in a place like this,” the older woman said, almost cheerfully.

Samira’s spine went rigid. She turned, very slowly, to face the women again. “Why’s that?”

“You’re Gotoro, right?” the older woman went on, casually, as if this was a normal human thing to say to a person you just met. “Don’t y’all worship different gods or something?”

Robin covered her eyes. “Marnie…”

Fuck no. No. Not dealing with this.

A screaming fit would just confirm their worst suspicions about the devil-worshiping Gotoro barbarian. Leaving, walking out now…no, that wouldn’t do either. It wouldn’t get the point across. And sure, a lecture about how most Gotoro were Yoba-worshippers too would be educational, but Samira did not feel like being polite.

Instead, she fished a bundle of daffodils out of her backpack and laid them carefully on the altar.

“Samira?” Robin attempted.

Samira ignored her, instead finding her smallest pendant in the stack she wore, the one her grandfather had given her when she was a kid. It was a Yoba symbol, just like on the altar. She kissed the symbol and muttered a little nonsense prayer for show.

If you’re real, Yoba, she thought, you better make this worth it.

With no looking back, she left the altar room and headed back to Pierre’s counter. He was just placing the last little bag of seed into a box.

“You should be all set,” he said, pushing the box toward her. “Best of luck.”

“Thanks, I don’t need it.” Samira took the box and hit the bricks.

Samira had been thinking about quitting that morning—there was so much work to do, and she was so tired and like, always sore. But now she couldn’t. Now she had to prove them wrong.

She would show them who didn’t fit in.

Chapter Text

“I totally have it this time,” Sam said, leaning over the pool table.

“Sure,” Sebastian said, grinning.

“Don’t torture him,” Abigail said to the handful of change she was digging through to find quarters. “Put him out of his misery.”

Sebastian was never as happy as he was on Friday nights at the Stardrop, so Sam never quite did his best at their weekly games of pool. It wasn’t just that Sebastian loved beating him, although that was part of it; Sebastian needed people, no matter how much he denied it, and on Friday nights, he had people. So Sam would goof his way through a game of pool and make his friend feel valued. The Sebastian who didn’t feel valued had some worrying habits.

“Let’s go,” Sam said, and hit the cue ball carelessly, spinning it into the pocket.

Sebastian tsked. “How many times are you going to scratch, dude?”

“As many as it takes to win,” Sam said, tugging on his jean jacket smartly, which made both his friends laugh. Good.

Abigail perked up. “Oh hey, look. Samira’s here.”

Sebastian looked, but Sam didn’t turn around. He felt the bubbling feeling return to his gut.

“We should ask her to hang out with us,” Abigail said.

Sam winced. “No. Are you crazy?”

“You can’t just not hang out with someone because they’re Gotoro, Sam,” Abigail chided. “That’s racist.”

“I’m not racist,” Sam scoffed. “I just…what if we end up talking about what our parents do? What am I supposed to say?”

“Just maybe keep your mouth shut and it won’t be a problem,” Sebastian said, taking the cue ball out of the pocket and setting himself up for an easy shot. “It’s not like she’s a spy or something.”

“I’m gonna go get her,” Abigail said, pocketing the change and heading out to the main bar.

Sebastian took his shot, sunk a ball, and paused to chalk up his cue before taking his next one. “Are you really messed up about this?”

Aw, shit, if fucking Sebastian noticed, Sam really must be broadcasting distress. Sam swallowed. “I just…don’t want to…why do you want to hang out with her?”

“I don’t know, she seems cool. And interesting.” Sebastian lined up his next shot. “Imagine if like, a total Maru type moved in. All determination and perkiness and shit. It’d be so annoying.”

Sam studied his friend. Clearly holding something back.

“And she’s hot,” Sam guessed.

Sebastian met his eyes briefly, just for long enough to Sam to determine he’d guessed right, and hit the cue ball. It bounced around the table without hitting anything. Sebastian made an annoyed face at the table and then gestured for Sam to take his turn.

Sam didn’t move yet. The roiling in his guts was getting worse, and he couldn’t for the life of him figure out why. “You gonna go for it?”

“Maybe. We’ll see what she’s like.” Sebastian shrugged. “Why, you want her?”

Sam knew the correct answer, and said it: “Nah, dude, that would be really complicated with my family.”

Correct and truthful were two different things.

“You’re being really weird about this,” Sebastian said, poking him with his pool cue. “Play.”

Sam bent down automatically to hit the ball without thinking much about where it was going. By pure happenstance, he managed to hit a ball into a pocket.

“Oh hell yeah!” he said immediately, straightening.

“The fuck!” Sebastian threw a hand up. “What happened there?”

“I’m gonna win, is what,” Sam said, circling the table, just as Abigail came back with Samira.

The boiling in his gut wasn’t letting up. He had to get that shit on lock now, before Samira picked up on it. Luckily, he knew how to hide that kind of thing. Just shut that up in a little box, and smile, and—

“Hey! You’re just in time to watch me finally beat this bitch,” Sam greeted her, hooking his thumb at Sebastian.

“I have at least nine points on you, idiot,” Sebastian scoffed. “Hi, Samira.”

She chuckled. Fuck, Sam hadn’t seen her smile yet. That was a good smile. “This sounds entertaining.”

“You can play me after I beat Sam,” Sebastian offered.

“Or you can leave those dorks to their stupid old man game and play Prairie King with me,” Abigail countered.

Samira sank onto the couch. “Uh…hit me up after I’ve eaten something. I’ll decide then.”

Sam shot a quick glance over at her. She looked tired. Really tired. “Are you okay?”

“Just hungry,” she lied, settling back into the couch. “Gus said it’d be only a few minutes.”

Why would she lie like that, Sam wondered, hitting the cue ball at a really bad clip that left it spinning just a couple inches away from where it was. “Shit.”

“I knew it had be a fluke,” Sebastian said with satisfaction, and lined up his shot.

*

Samira could feel all the knots in her muscles starting to unravel. And frankly, it hurt. But in a good way.

After the debacle in the altar room a few days ago, Samira had been working nonstop. The farm was actually looking pretty good now. The only cost was that she was completely spent. So she’d stumbled into Stardrop because she was desperate for food that she didn’t have to cook, and she was pretty sure she could afford spaghetti.

And lo and behold! She arrived just in time for Abigail to invite her to sit with her and the two other randos who she’d met last week.

She wasn’t entirely sure why she’d said yes. Maybe she just didn’t have the energy to say no.

But listening to the boys bicker was in fact entertaining, and Abigail’s commentary was fun, and it was nice to be asked to just hang out without any obligation to contribute too much. She knew she was being weirdly quiet, but whatever, let them think she was weird. It didn’t seem to bother them.

“Nah dude, it’d be great if there was an actual skate park in this town,” Sam was saying. She watched his long, lanky form almost bend in half to hit a cue ball and tried not to linger. It was stupid that she’d always had a thing for skater boys, and it was more stupid that this guy fit that description. He barely acknowledged her, sticking to bare minimum interactions.

“You would be the only person who used it,” Sebastian said. He kept fiddling with the cigarette box in his pocket. He was, by every measure except height, the more attractive of the two, complete with the emo bangs that would have made a younger Samira cut his picture out of a magazine.

“If we had a skate park, I would give lessons,” Sam said enthusiastically. “I could teach Vincent!”

“Vincent?” Samira asked Abigail.

“Sam’s little brother,” Abigail explained. “Cute kid. I personally have always thought that he really needed two broken arms from skate injuries.”

Samira snorted.

“Hey, I’m a good teacher,” Sam protested, idly spinning the cue in his hand. “Vincent could totally be a skater. I’d teach Jas too. Anybody.”

“Jas is Vincent’s little friend,” Abigail explained. “She’s nine, I think. And Vincent is…how old?”

“Just turned eight,” Sam provided.

“They’re the only kids in town at the moment.”

Samira was taken aback. “Really?”

“There haven’t really been like, people in this backwater hellhole since the mining companies left,” Sebastian said, studying the pool table. “I was the only one in my graduating class.”

“So was I,” Abigail added.

“I wasn’t,” Sam said, like it was a brag.

“Yeah, cuz you moved here when we were in middle school and ruined our One Man Graduating Class Streak,” said Abigail. “I was going to be the fifth one in a row.”

“That’s bizarre,” Samira murmured. “I think there were like, eight hundred people in my graduating class.”

“Penny was just glad not to have all the spotlight,” Sam said.

“How did school even work like that?” Samira wondered.

Abigail shrugged. “One room schoolhouse. Not that we have the schoolhouse anymore.”

“It burned down,” Sebastian said, as if this was an inane little fact.

“Penny teaches at the library now,” Abigail went on. “She’s apparently a good teacher.”

“She’s the only reason I fucking graduated,” Sam said seriously. “And Vincent loves her.”

“High praise,” Samira said, almost to herself. “So wait—when did you graduate?”

Sam paused and straightened, frowning into the rafters. “Uhhhhh…three years ago?”

“Last year,” Abigail said, pointing to herself. “I’m doing university classes online now.”

Sebastian pointedly did not answer, just lined up his next shot.

“What about you?” Abigail asked.

“I graduated four years ago,” Samira said, hoping the next question would be a surprise instead of the one she was dreading.

But she wasn’t that lucky. Abigail asked the dreaded question: “University?”

No, university is hard when you’re constantly barraged with microaggressions and the curriculum is not built for people with ADHD and you can’t afford your meds anymore, Samira did not say. “Nah. I tried, but I had to drop out. I worked food service a few places, but…I’m a farmer now, I guess.”

“Yeah you are,” Abigail said, nudging her.

Samira couldn’t help but smile at that. “Uh, what about you guys?”

“I code,” Sebastian said shortly, hitting another ball into another pocket.

“I’m in a band,” Sam said.

Before Samira even had time to be shocked, both Abigail and Sebastian protested.

“Barely,” scoffed Abigail.

“We’re not even a whole band,” Sebastian said.

Sam grinned. He had a stupid cock-eyed grin that was unfortunately adorable. “Okay but someday, right?”

“If we could find a drummer.” Sebastian rolled his eyes.

“I have told you guys a million times,” Abigail muttered, “I would totally—”

“I do janitorial work at Joja for money, but most of the time I’m taking care of my mom and Vince,” Sam went on.

“Do you all live at home?” Samira asked.

“Yeah, but it’s only embarrassing for Sebastian, since he’s twenty-five,” Abigail teased.

“Fuck off,” Sebastian said, more aggressively than Samira expected. “I can’t afford to move out, I’ve crunched the numbers a million times.”

“I mean, I couldn’t either until now,” Samira said, taking care to keep her tone neutral because Sebastian didn’t have the decency to. Fucking hell, this guy’s temper really wrecked the vibe.

“Shit, the economy sucks,” Abigail said. “Why am I getting a business degree?”

“Because your dad is paying for it?” Sam suggested.

“I should have studied folklore and mythology like I wanted,” Abigail finished sadly.

“What kind of fucking job are you going to get with a folklore degree?” Sebastian said. He seemed to have cooled off again.

Abigail shrugged luxuriously. “Adventurer?”

“They still have those?” Sam wondered.

The night and the conversation moved on, and Samira started to get the sneaking suspicion she may have found a place to fit in.

She wondered how long it would last.

Chapter Text

Samira took her time walking into town on this gorgeous Sunday morning. She had wandered up from the woods, as was her wont, because there was always the chance of finding spring onions and leeks, now that she knew what she was looking for. But she wanted to take a second look at the old broken-down community center. Something weird was going on there.

And it was a shame it was abandoned. Back home, the Gotoro Community Building wasn’t a place Samira frequented now that she was a grown ass woman, but it was still important to Dad. Pelican Town had no schoolhouse, a museum that had been robbed, and was full of barely employed twenty-somethings. It really needed a community center.

She was lost in thought when the door of one of the houses opened to reveal a tall strawberry-blonde lady. The lady from the altar incident…?

“Samira!” she called, and hurried down to meet her.

Oh great.

“I don’t think we’ve been properly introduced,” she said, walking with her when Samira didn’t stop. “I’m Jodi. I was there the other day after aerobics class.”

Samira could feel herself leaning away. “Yeah. Right.”

“Glad to finally meet you,” Jodi said cheerfully. “You wouldn’t happen to be headed to the chapel, would you? I was just going there myself.”

Shit, it was Sunday morning. And she’d made such a big deal out of the Yoba thing, too. “Uhh…” What the fuck was she supposed to do? “Yeah. I mean, I can’t stay long, but—”

“Oh how nice.” To Samira’s surprise, Jodi hooked her arm in Samira’s. “It’s so rare to find a young person who’s dedicated to Yoba.”

They were moving now. Toward Pierre’s. Arm-in-arm. What the fuck. She needed to get out of this. “I uh…I don’t know if I’d call myself dedicated.”

“I know what you mean,” Jodi said sagely. “I'm always wondering, can I do more?”

Dammit, Samira had forgotten what religious types were like.

“It’s hard being the only person in town who really uses that room for its intended purpose, too. But then again, I guess I’m not the only one now.” Jodi gave her a warm smile.

There was absolutely no way to respond to that, so Samira redirected. “Pierre and Caroline don’t use it?”

“No, evidently it came with the building,” Jodi said.

A thought occurred to Samira, along with a pang of dread. “You uh…you go every Sunday?”

“Every Sunday,” Jodi confirmed.

“There aren’t like…services…”

“No, unfortunately not,” Jodi said. “I just go to fast and pray.”

Oh, shit. “You fast? That’s pretty hardcore.”

“I have a very important thing to request of Yoba,” Jodi said humbly. “I want to show willing.”

Samira was, against her better judgment, curious. “What are you requesting?”

“The safe return of my husband,” Jodi said. Her tone was almost forcefully calm. “He is a soldier.”

Samira didn’t know what to say.

There was only one war the Ferngill Republic was fighting right now.

In silence they walked together into Pierre’s—he waved—and entered the sanctuary. Jodi let go of Samira’s arm and took a seat in one of the stools, and Samira sat beside her.

Jodi was a perfectly nice person who didn’t seem to have any problems being seen with Samira in public. They’d walked here arm-in-arm. And all she wanted was her husband home safe. She was literally praying and fasting for that right now.

So how was Samira supposed to express to her the depth of her rage and scorn for the military-industrial complex, much less her skepticism that only one side of this war was representing an empire, much less her lack of sympathy for this man who made his living killing Gotoro people?

She felt bad for Jodi. She could hear her murmuring under her breath, and if the scattered words Samira was picking up were any indication, she just wanted this one man home safe.

Jodi wasn’t afraid of being seen with Samira, but she mistakenly assumed, because Samira had led her to believe it, that they shared a faith. And Samira felt like they were from different planets.

After what felt like enough time—and it could have been hours or minutes, there was no way to tell in here—Samira stood up and dug a little crystal she’d found out of her pocket. Carefully, she laid it on the altar.

No more war is too much to ask, isn’t it? Samira thought. I’ll ask anyway. No more war.

She felt bad just leaving Jodi, who was still deep in prayer, without saying goodbye, so she gave her shoulder a little squeeze before leaving.

The daylight was blinding after the close dimness of the sanctuary, but the fresh air was nice. Samira took a breath.

Fuck the community center. She was going to the beach.

Chapter Text

“Sam!”

Sam jolted awake. Mom’s voice. Gotta get up. Forgetting something? Surely not. What time…

Seven fucking thirty?!

She was out of her mind. There was zero good reason to be awake before ten. Fuck this.

Sam groaned, rubbed his face, and made sure his tone was chipper before he called out, “Coming!”

He stumbled his way out of his room to find Vincent, who should be getting ready for school by now, sitting at the kitchen table with a book he definitely wasn’t reading, open-mouthed and flicking his cheeks to make a bloop sound.

“Hi, honey,” Mom said overbrightly from her place at the sink, where she was washing dishes. Oh she was already at the end of her patience. “I just got a call from Penny, she’s not feeling well today, so school is canceled.”

“Oh shi—shoot, that sucks,” Sam said, trying to hold back a yawn. “Is she okay?”

“She just said she had a little cold, nothing major,” Mom assured him. “But you don’t work today, right? I need you to watch over Vincent.”

“Uh, yeah.” Sam rubbed his eyes. “Sure. This um…this couldn’t have waited two hours?”

“Now, what’s your father going to say with you sleeping in so late when he gets back?” Mom said lightly. “I bet he gets up early every day to fight.”

Sam paused. Now…this was tricky. She wasn’t lying, but…

Dad used to take leave every year, spending a month at home wherever he could. That hadn’t happened this year, or the year before that. Sam had a vague recollection of overhearing a phone call while Vincent was at school that had left his mom sobbing, but he’d been half-asleep and it could have easily been a dream.

And she wasn’t talking. She hadn’t volunteered any information. Sam would bet money that something seriously fucked up was happening, and she didn’t want her boys to be worried.

“Yeah,” Sam said finally. “I guess that’s a good point. I was just hoping to um. Do some stuff today, and—”

“As was I,” Mom said. “And I would say that my plans are perhaps just as legitimate as yours, if not more, because they are for the good of the household, and…” she prompted.

“Housework is still work, even if no one’s paying you to do it,” Sam recited with a sigh. “Okay. I’m on it.”

“Thank you so much,” Mom said, smiling. “If you can get him ready? And then you two can go out and do things for a bit.”

Vincent was stir-crazy and likely to drive her up the wall, got it. Sam would bet the constant bloop sounds were starting to grate on her. “Sure. Hey, Vince, did you eat breakfast?”

“Yep,” Vincent said, finally stopping the ceaseless bloop bloop bloop.

“Did you brush your teeth?”

“Yep,” Vincent lied, folding his hands innocently.

Sam raised an eyebrow. “C’mon, dude.”

“How can you always tell?” Vincent groaned, hopping off his chair and heading to the bathroom.

That kind of made Sam smile. He reached over his mom’s head to the cupboard where he kept his poptarts, out of Vincent’s reach, and took two packets. “You okay?”

“I’m good, thank you,” Mom said, unfazed by the poptart retrieval. She was pretty tall for a lady, but not taller than Sam. “Just going to be cleaning all day and it’s better if he’s not underfoot.”

“He can play outside on his own, you know.” Sam ripped open both packages and put one set in the toaster, munching on the other cold.

“I know.” Mom dried her gloves and took them off, hanging them off the side of the sink. “But he’s always so lonely when he doesn’t get to play with Jas. I thought it’d be nice for you two to spend time together.”

Sam chewed thoughtfully. She wasn’t wrong. Rare for her to be wrong, really.

“Have you met the new farmer, by the way?” she asked, taking a dish to dry it off.

Sam nearly choked. He swallowed, very carefully. “Uh. Samira. Yeah, I’ve met her.”

“Oh good,” Mom said, laying the dry plate on the counter and picking up another. “What an interesting girl. You wouldn’t expect someone who dresses like that to be religious.”

Fucking. What. “She’s religious?”

“She spent some time praying with me the other day,” Mom said casually. “It was nice. And she leaves offerings on the altar sometimes. A little esoteric, but perhaps that’s a cultural thing.”

The poptarts jumped out of the toaster, startling Sam. He exhaled slowly. “Uh. Interesting.”

“You’re jumpy,” Mom commented, laying a second plate down. “Are you okay?”

“I’m…fine.” He was tired, and he felt kind of sick, and that horrible roiling in his gut was back.

She shot him a raised eyebrow.

Sam sighed. “How can you always tell?”

“Where do you think you got it?” Mom searched his face. “Are you sick too?”

“I don’t feel great,” Sam muttered. “But I think I’ll be okay.”

Mom tested his forehead. “Hm. Well, if you do end up feeling too sick, bring Vincent back. We’ll figure it out.”

“Okay, Mom.” He kissed the top of her head, because it made her laugh when he did, and scooped up his poptarts, calling across the house, “Hey Vince! Gimme a sec to get dressed and we’ll go!”

“Take an antihistamine before you go!” Mom called after him.

Chapter Text

“Hey Sam.”

“Yeah?”

They’d decided to go for a long walk, or rather Sam had decided and Vince had said he’d never been up by Sebastian’s house before, which Sam thought was strange, since he was up here all the time. This was the fourth or fifth “hey Sam” Vincent had started a conversation with.

“Do you think that in um. Star Wars? That if Anakin stayed with his mom he would have just won podracing all the time?” Vincent posed questions as if rolling a ball out in front of them, so they had to keep going to find the answer to it.

“I don’t know, like…” Time for Sam to be cool about the fact that he went through a phase at Vincent’s age where he watched Star Wars on repeat. “He’s got the force and stuff. When he was a kid he was good enough to beat literally everyone, right, so if he applied all his power to podracing he’d probably get kicked out because it wasn’t fun for anyone else.”

“They’d kick him out?” Vincent demanded. “That’s not fair.”

“They’re like gangsters and stuff, man, they don’t care about fair,” Sam said sagely.

Vincent made a discontented little grumble and they continued on walking.

“Hey Sam.”

Sam tried not to laugh. “Yeah?

“I bet there’s a million salmonberries in the bushes.”

“Do you even like salmonberries?” Sam asked.

“No but I bet there’s a million of them.” Vincent picked up a stick and started hitting weeds with it. “Do you think raccoons like salmonberries?”

“Probably.”

“Do you think bugs like salmonberries?”

“Except for like, spiders, which eat bugs instead of berries.”

Vincent paused to scowl at him. “Spiders aren’t bugs. They’re arachnids.”

“They’re not bugs?” Sam said, a little baffled.

“No, Miss Penny said so,” Vincent explained.

“Well she’s really smart, so that’s probably true.”

Vincent nodded, satisfied, and kept walking.

Let’s see, how long did it take Vincent to come up with a new topic? Less than a minute, right?

“Hey Sam.”

Just on time. “Yep?”

“Who’s that?”

They were approaching the little mountain lake. Sam didn’t hang out here much; his mom always talked about the fact that there was a wild man up here someplace, but Sam was watching, so it’d be fine. The person Vincent was pointing at was not the wild man; actually, it was Samira, sitting on the lake shore with a fishing line in the water.

Sam stopped dead. For a second there it had felt like things were going to be okay today, but now his guts were once again roiling like a stormy ocean.

Vincent had not noticed Sam had stopped and was still walking.

“Vincent,” Sam said, too quietly, and then when he didn’t stop, “Vince! Vincent!”

Samira looked up.

Now Vincent stopped, and was just staring.

Yoba fucking dammit—Sam tried not to wince and raised a hand in greeting. “Hey.”

“Hi,” Samira said, at a volume a little under an outside voice, and then waved them over. “Not so loud?”

“Yeah,” Sam breathed. Shit. He put a hand on Vincent’s back and nudged him toward Samira.

“Scaring fish is a thing, right? You’re not supposed to be too loud?” Samira said quietly. “Or did my dad just want peace and quiet while he was fishing?”

Sam loosed a surprised little laugh. “I uh…I don’t know. You fish?”

“Not for ages, but Willy got me started again,” Samira said. “You know Willy?”

“Yeah I’ve seen him around. Oh, uh, this is Vincent.”

Samira smiled, a genuine smile. “Hi, Vincent, I’m Samira.”

“Hi,” Vincent said faintly. He was still staring.

“Hey, don’t stare, that’s rude,” Sam said, shaking his brother’s shoulder gently.

“Sorry,” Vincent said, and didn’t stop staring.

Sam watched as Samira got a sort of hardness to her face. It reminded him of a pillbug rolling up. “If you have a question, kid, you should just come out and ask it.”

“Why did you put spikes on your jacket?” Vincent blurted.

Samira’s shoulders visibly relaxed. “Oh. Well, that’s very simple. It looks fucking sick.”

Vincent gasped and giggled nervously, and Sam did too. He’d uh…remind Vince not to say that in front of Mom later. Samira grinned.

“Why are they on your back?” Vincent asked, coming a little closer.

“They get in the way otherwise,” Samira explained. “I guess shoulders would be okay, but I think this looks the coolest. I just have to do my hair up like this, so it doesn’t get caught.”

“Are they sharp?” Vincent asked.

Samira leaned toward him, offering a shoulder. “You want to feel them?”

Vince reached out and touched them gingerly, and then with more confidence. “They’re not too sharp. Could you use it like a weapon?”

“Yes,” Samira said firmly, and did not elaborate. “What are you guys doing here, anyway?”

“Going for a walk,” Vincent said, plopping down beside Samira like he belonged there. “Have you caught any fish?”

“Yeah, actually.” She grabbed a bucket that was on the other side of her and showed Vincent. There were maybe three fish in there, uncomfortably wiggling over each other.

Vincent nodded sagely. “Gross. Hey, what’s that?” He pointed to the edge of the bucket.

Samira looked. “Oh, that’s a snail that’s been hanging out with me. I’m pretty sure we’re best friends now.”

Vincent’s eyes like, literally sparkled. “I love him,” he whispered.

“Oh, then he should definitely go hang out with you.” Samira carefully slid the snail along the bucket’s rim until it released, and then placed it solemnly in Vincent’s hands. “There you go.”

Vincent was overcome. He couldn’t speak.

Fuck. If Sam’s guts were disturbed before, now he was nearly nauseous. And that was fucked up, why did this make him so uncomfortable?

“Hey Vincent, do you think we could get your brother to sit with us?” Samira said in a mock whisper.

Vincent took his eye off his snail for a second to look up at Sam and wave him over. “C’mon, come sit.”

Sam did as he was told, and admittedly he did feel slightly better not towering over the two of them. He opened his mouth to say they couldn’t stay for long, but that simply was not true and it would make Vincent ask inconvenient questions.

It was kind of nice out here.

“Have you ever seen the wild man who’s supposed to live up here?” Sam said before he could stop himself.

“His name is Linus.” Samira’s tone was almost bored.

“For real?” Vincent said, at the same time Sam said, “Are you serious?”

Samira shrugged. “He’s a pretty cool guy.”

“How did you even meet him?” Sam asked.

“Well um…you know the old mine shaft?” She looked just a little embarrassed.

“Sure?”

“I uh…I passed out in there and he found me. Helped me out.”

Sam leaned away from her. “Fuck, are you okay?”

“Just stupid,” she said mildly. “Yeah, he’s like, fine though. Just a guy who likes the woods.”

“What were you doing in the mine shaft?” Vincent asked, wiggling his feet back and forth in front of him.

“There’s stuff in there, useful stuff.” Samira slid a glance over to Vincent, and then met Sam’s eyes. “You probably shouldn’t go in without your brother, though. Or another adult. It’s dangerous.”

“Aww,” Vincent said, but Sam suddenly felt a little better. He gave her a little nod.

She shot him a tiny smile and then looked back out over her fishing rod. “Oh. Did you see that?”

“Your rod twitched,” Vincent observed.

“Mhmm and…” She reeled in the line a little bit, and then gave the whole thing a yank. “Hell yeah, come here, fish.”

Goths fishing. Sam would watch that game show. Like, this was inherently ridiculous, and funny, and kind of great. His stomach felt a little better.

Samira pulled the fish out of the water, flipping weakly on the line. She looked it over carefully, and then took hold of it to pull the hook out.

“You stab them in the mouth?” Vincent asked.

“Yeah, unfortunately. But I try not to make them suffer too much.” She showed him the fish. “Can I be honest with you, Vincent?”

“Yes?” Vince said, unsure.

“I have no idea if this is a big fish or not.”

Sam snorted.

“Don’t laugh at her,” Vincent said, whacking Sam on the arm. “I think it’s a big fish.”

Samira covered her mouth with the hand that wasn’t holding a fish to hold back laughter.

“Sorry, I wasn’t laughing, I promise,” Sam said, not doing a great job of practicing what he preached.

“Good,” Vincent said decisively.

Samira put her fish in the bucket and turned back to face the brothers. Damn. He really liked her smile.

“Hey Samira,” Vincent began.

“Yes?” Samira took a worm from a styrofoam container by her knee and baited her hook.

“Do you think it’s weird to be a fish?”

She stood up to cast. “It’s probably not weird for the fish.”

Sam released a breath. It felt like he’d been holding onto it for a very long time.

Chapter Text

Samira opened her front door ready to harvest some fucking melons and was immediately jump-scared by a human person.

“Shit!” she yelped.

“Did I scare you?” Marnie asked. It was Marnie, right? That’s what Robin had called her. “I thought about knocking, but it’s very early.”

Samira pressed a hand to her chest. “Yeah, it is! Why…what are you doing here?”

“Well, two reasons,” Marnie said. She was holding a big cardboard box very carefully, pressing the flaps of the lid shut. “The first one was an apology.”

Samira was instantly suspicious. “Okay.”

Marnie straightened up. “What I said the other day in the altar room was ignorant,” she said, in what sounded like a practiced speech. “I haven’t gone many places or done much in my life and so I didn’t realize how it’d come across. I asked in genuine curiosity, but it was still rude, so I’m sorry.”

Samira felt her shoulders loosen a little. “That’s a pretty good apology.”

“Do you think so?” Marnie said, bouncing a little on her toes. “I practiced. And I mean it.”

“Then…I accept, I guess.” This felt weirdly formal. “Uh…do you want to sit?”

“Thank you,” Marnie said, and the two of them settled down on the steps, Marnie still careful to hold the lid together.

“What’s in the box?” Now that Samira was close, she could hear something moving inside.

“That’s the second thing,” Marnie explained. “Are you a cat person, Samira?”

“Yes?” Samira eyeballed the box. “Do you have a cat in there?”

“You know, I’m not very knowledgeable, but I can always tell if someone’s a cat person or a dog person,” Marnie said, as if she hadn’t heard the question. “Or a chicken person. I was hoping you could give this little guy a home. Maybe you need a mouser?”

The scrabbling that Samira kept hearing in the middle of the night would suggest she did. “Maybe. Why’s he in the box?”

“Because he tried to claw my face off when I picked him up,” Marnie said cheerfully. “I must have misread his body language. I don’t think he likes being touched, so he doesn’t trust me anymore. Is that okay? He’ll take some time to warm up to you.”

Samira could relate. “Yeah, yeah, that’s okay.”

“Wonderful.” Marnie smiled warmly. “I love animals. I brought some things to get you started, but if you need anything for this little guy, you just let me know, all right?”

“Sure, um…can he breathe in there?” Samira pointed to the box.

“Yes, there are some holes,” Marnie said. “Shall we let him out?”

“Yeah, please.”

Marnie lifted her hand off the box and put it on the dirt in front of them.

A streak of black burst from the box up the stairs, into the woodpile.

“Oh shit,” Samira said, frozen for a second. She leaned back to look at the woodpile and caught a glimpse of a pair of big yellow eyes. “Look at those eyes. Like a harvest moon.”

“He is very handsome,” Marnie said approvingly. “What will you call him?”

“I kind of like Moon,” Samira said. She hadn’t broken eye contact with the cat.

“Hm. Are you interested in tarot, Samira?”

Samira didn’t look away. “Not really. I think they’re beautiful, but I never got into it, really.”

“I did a bit of tarot when I was younger,” Marnie said. “The Moon means illusion and instability, which is interesting—”

“Not a good omen, then?” Samira asked. Blink, cat. Fucking blink.

“Well that’s just the thing, it also means intuition. Do you like the name, in your gut?”

Moon blinked.

“I do,” Samira said without thinking, and then looked to Marnie. “Yeah. I do.”

“Then I think it’s perfect,” Marnie said, standing up. “Now in that box is everything our Moon needs. I don’t think he’s eaten today, so you can start with that. Any questions?”

“No, I…I’m good.” Samira stood up too. “Thanks, Marnie.”

“Thank you, for accepting my apology,” Marnie said. “And giving him a home.” She held out a hand to shake.

Samira shook it. Just like a real adult, crazy. “I’ll take care of him,” she blurted.

“Good.” Marnie gave her one last smile, and headed toward the gate of the farm.

Samira exhaled and took a look in the box. Two little simple bowls—metal, kind of boring, but that was fine. A few cans of wet food and a small bag of dry. A litter box which was thankfully clean, and another little bag of litter.

Samira went back inside to open up a can of wet food. She vaguely remembered that cats that only ate wet food ended up with bad teeth, so she mixed in dry food with it and put half in one of the bowls and the other half in the fridge. She filled the other bowl with water and took them both back out to the porch.

She couldn’t see Moon now. He’d probably retreated farther into the woodpile. She put down the bowls near the wood and backed up to sit at the other end of the porch.

After a few minutes, Moon poked his nose out of the woodpile and sniffed his way over to the bowl, taking a moment every few steps to look at Samira. Samira tried to be very still. He was a shorthair, the kind of black cat that looked like a blob of void. He settled across from Samira on the other side of the bowl, tail curled around his feet, and stared at her.

“You can eat, you know,” she said quietly. “It’s okay. You’re home now.”

He stared at her for a while longer, blinked, and started to eat.

Samira sighed in relief. The last thing she needed was a starved cat on her conscience.

Right. She stood up. The melons. Harvest some fucking melons.

Chapter Text

“I don’t even know if these are any good,” Samira told the guy behind the counter at the combination museum/library, showing him the handful of interesting rocks she’d dug out of the mines. “Like, are these even decent specimens?”

“They certainly are,” Gunther said, rubbing the dust off the red quartz she’d found with a soft cloth. “I’ll polish them up and they’ll look lovely. My background’s in geology, you know.”

“No shit,” Samira said. She liked this guy. She liked anyone who decided on a Look and really committed to it, and this guy dressed like a cowboy, despite the fact that the closest wide-open prairie was about two hundred miles away. The soft twang in his voice served as an assurance that it wasn’t an affectation so much as a dedication to where he came from. “Gunther, be honest with me, what the hell are you doing here?”

Gunther looked up and smiled at her mysteriously. “What are you doing here?”

“My grandad left me a farm,” Samira answered promptly. “I needed…I needed to get out of Zuzu City.”

“Me too,” he said, holding the quartz up to the light. It glowed like fire. “Too many people. And I like the idea of curating a whole museum myself.”

“Bet you liked it less when you found out it had been robbed,” Samira said.

“Sure, but now I can mold it into something new, something…” Gunther set the quartz down on a different facet than Samira expected, one that showed off the way the light seemed to make it gleam from the inside. “Something gorgeous.”

Samira admired the quartz for a moment before saying, “As long as I keep bringing you stuff, right?”

“Well of course.” Gunther grinned.

The door behind Samira opened, and Samira saw Vincent enter, along with a black-haired girl and a woman about Samira’s age, a thin brunette wearing clothing that looked very sensible, but worn. Vincent stopped just in front of the doorway. “Samira!”

“Vincent!” the little girl complained, smushed between him and the young woman.

“Vincent, would you please take a couple steps forward?” the young woman said.

“Oh, sorry,” Vincent said, and marched right up to Samira. “Are you here for school? You’re too old for school, right?”

“Yoba, I hope so,” Samira said. “Hi, Vincent. Are you here for school?”

“Yes,” he said regretfully.

“Then…you must be Penny?” Samira hoped she’d got the name of the only other person in Sam’s graduating class right.

“Oh, I…yes.” The young woman looked very uncomfortable. “I’m sorry, we haven’t met, are you…”

“I’m—I’m Samira, uh…Sam mentioned you.”

The relief on her face was…a little outsized, damn. Samira wasn’t going to bite.

“Glad to meet you,” Penny said. “And this is Jas.”

Jas, meanwhile, had taken up a post behind Penny and was staring at Samira, silent and wide-eyed.

“You and Miss Penny should be friends,” Vincent explained. “Because you and Sam are friends and Miss Penny and Sam are friends, so it makes sense.”

Penny blushed. “Vincent, you don’t need to bother Samira—”

“It’s okay, I promise,” Samira assured her. Shit, this Penny girl needed like, protecting. “Uh, Sam said you’re like, the only reason he graduated, so you seem like a cool person to know.”

Penny blushed harder. Interesting. “That’s an exaggeration. Sam’s really smart, actually, he just needed some help with focus.”

“Relatable,” Samira said, nodding, and then unsure about where to steer the conversation from there. “Uh…are you a…school person?”

“Well, I never really left,” Penny said, patting Jas on the back. “All right, Vincent, let’s go. We’ve got to finish up our books today.”

“Aww,” Vincent groaned. “Bye, Samira.”

“Let’s say thank you to Dr. Gunther for letting us use the library today,” Penny said as the three of them walked away.

“Thank you, Dr. Gunther,” Jas and Vincent chorused.

Gunther smiled. “Of course, kiddos.”

Samira grinned as the three of them settled at a table among the stacks. “Dr. Gunther.”

“It’s nice that the PhD has followed me,” Gunther said, taking the cloth and polishing what he had informed her was a topaz. “Yoba knows it didn’t do much good in academia.”

“How could it not?”

“As soon as I opened my mouth, no one believed I knew what I was talking about,” Gunther said mildly. “I tried to hide the accent for a while, dress in the office clothes, but…well, I wasn’t myself, was I?”

Samira watched him slowly polish the topaz with interest, her mind wandering.

Friends with Sam, huh Vincent? Samira was friends with Sam? He barely spoke to her. He seemed to avoid it, in fact.

“Sam’s not actually my friend. At least…I don’t think he is.” Samira sighed. “I don’t know. How can you tell if someone’s avoiding you?”

“To be perfectly clear, that PhD of mine is in petrology, not relationship therapy,” Gunther said, holding up the topaz to the light before taking the cloth to it again. “And you are an adult. If you want to know, ask him.”

“Ugh, I don’t want to do that,” Samira groaned.

“Then who’s avoiding who?” Gunther waved a hand. “Now go on, find me more rocks.”

“You only love me for my rocks,” Samira accused.

“That’s so,” Gunther agreed, but he was smiling. “See you later, Samira.”

*

Sam was working on a particularly complicated little riff on his guitar when Penny texted.

penny lane: Vincent says that I should be friends with Samira, to complete the friendship triangle.

Sam smirked. What a Vincent move, making everyone be friends. He texted back, why stop at a triangle? why not a quadrangle

It was a dumb joke, but it was the kind that Penny liked. He tossed his phone onto his bed and finished figuring out the riff, ignoring when the screen lit up until he felt confident with the notes. He replaced his guitar on its stand, unplugged his headphones and slid them to his neck, and then flopped down on his bed to check her reply.

penny lane: So you are friends with Samira?

Sam exhaled slowly. A loaded question. Not one he could answer. He’d been avoiding her, in fact, so he didn’t have to think about it.

He typed, what do you think of her

It wasn’t too long before the reply came through.

penny lane: She looks so scary, but she seems nice. And if you’re friends with her, she must be okay.

The bubbling feeling in his stomach was starting to come back. He took far too long to text back, yeah she’s cool.

The little “typing” bubble appeared. Sam watched it impatiently. He didn’t have to wait long.

penny lane: What would your dad think of that?

Fuck.

Sam locked his phone without answering. He didn’t know. Every time Dad came back he was a little different, a little scarier, and now he hadn’t been home in years and something was wrong…

He couldn’t say all that to Penny. Penny had enough to deal with without having to carry his problems too.

Oh fuck, she’d be worried if he left her on read. He unlocked the phone and lied, dunno. probably no big deal.

And then he let his phone slip from his hand to the floor, so he wouldn’t have to think about it anymore.

Chapter Text

“You should have dinner with me and my family,” Jodi said, squeezing Samira’s hand.

Samira had once again ended up in the courtyard as Jodi was on her way to worship. This time Samira managed to beg off going to pray, what with all the chores she had to do, but not before Jodi had clasped her hands warmly in a way that was like, custom-designed to make her feel guilty.

“Oh you don’t have to do that, I don’t want to uh—impose, or—”

“Well it’s not entirely altruistic,” Jodi said mischievously. “Word is you’re quite the fisherman.”

Who the fuck was going around saying she was a good fisherman?

“I guess I’m okay,” she eked out.

“Well if you can catch the fish, I can cook it,” Jodi said, patting her hand before letting it go. “And I don’t like to brag, but I’m a very good cook. The fish from Joja is fine, but fresh fish? That’d be a treat. And we can dress up, have a little dinner party. Doesn’t that sound nice?”

Fuck, it did sound kind of nice. Samira was decidedly not a good cook. When’s the last time she’d eaten a good meal?

“Okay,” Samira relented. “Yeah. That actually sounds great, Jodi.”

Jodi beamed. “Does tomorrow work for you?”

*

Samira had gone back and forth on what to wear. She had only brought one thing that could be considered dressy, and it was very gothically disproportionate to dressing up for a dinner party. But then again, Jodi knew who she was, and Jodi’s family, whoever they were, could just deal with it.

So it was with defiant confidence—maybe the only kind of confidence she had—that she knocked on the door of Jodi’s house.

Vincent opened the door. “Samira!”

“Uh—Vincent! Hi, uh…what are you doing here?”

Vincent looked puzzled. “At my house?”

“Oh of course this is…” Now that she was thinking about it, she could see the resemblance. “Sorry, silly me.”

Vincent beamed and held the door open for her. “Come in!”

Vincent was wearing what looked like his Egg Festival best. He had a little bow tie, that was darling.

“Thank you,” Samira said as she came in, matching his little air of formality.

He drew up nice and straight, all business. “May I take your coat?”

“Oh.” Samira shoved her hands into the pockets of her spiky leather jacket. “You don’t have to.”

“Please?” Vincent asked, clasping his hands in front of him.

Shit, how was she supposed to say no to that? Even if it did make her feel pretty exposed. She slid off first her backpack and then her jacket, and handed the latter to him. “Okay, but no using it as a weapon, okay?”

Vincent lit up. “Got it.”

“Samira!” Jodi came into the front room from the kitchen, looking like she just got back from a sock hop in a polka-dot A-line dress and an oldschool hairdo. “Now that is a fun outfit.”

“So is yours,” Samira said, digging in her backpack for the carefully wrapped fish she’d brought. “Thank you for having me.”

“Thank you for catching us dinner!” Jodi said, accepting the bundle and turning to call over one shoulder, “Sam! Come help me gut this fish please?”

*

Sam was playing his guitar without the amp or headphones plugged in so he could hear when people got here, but he didn’t put it down til he heard his mom calling. “Coming,” he called back, but he couldn’t help but roll his eyes. Abigail and Pierre and Caroline could wait. He assumed that’s who the dinner guests were because that’s who they always were. The fish dish Mom was making was something to look forward to at least, and later he and Abigail could go off and do their own thing with Vincent so Abigail could relax. She was always so wound up about these dinners.

It’d be hard not to be, Sam thought, replacing his guitar. It felt like Pierre and Caroline were constantly vigilant to Abigail stepping out of line. Not that they were strict, but they would comment. Incessantly.

He opened the door to his room, wandered down the hall, and froze.

Oh shit.

Samira was in his living room, and Samira looked amazing. Her dress was strapless, and the top was a corset that really flattered her body—like, c’mon, everyone looked amazing in a corset, but holy shit—and her long black skirt had a slit up to her thigh that showed off lacy tights.

And Sam, in order to take some attention off Abigail, had chosen a tuxedo t-shirt and some jeans that only had a small hole.

“Sam?” Mom repeated, for what he realized was the second time.

“Oh, sorry, I…” There was no excuse, he’d been gawking. Shit. “Yeah. Fish?”

“Yes please,” Mom said, and told Vincent, “Would you entertain our guest while Sam and I start putting dinner together?”

“Yes,” Vincent said decisively, closing the closet where he’d been hanging a jacket. “Do you want to see my room?”

“Sure,” said Samira, and Sam noticed for the first time that she looked a little nervous.

No time to deal with that, though, he apparently had a fish to gut. He followed Mom into the kitchen.

“Why didn’t you tell me Samira was the one coming?” Sam grumbled, getting out a cutting board.

“I did,” Mom said. She set a carefully wrapped package on the counter next to Sam and started taking out the rest of the ingredients for the crispy bass.

“No you didn’t,” Sam said, pulling a knife out of the knife block and spinning it once in his hand before cutting the wrapping off the package. “I would remember if you did.”

“I don’t see why you’re blaming me when you’re the one not listening,” Mom said mildly. “Is that why you decided not to dress up?”

“I thought it was just Abigail again,” he muttered, taking the fish out of the fish out of the package, and pausing. “This isn’t Joja fish.”

“Samira caught it for us,” Mom said. “Are you going to be a good host tonight? You reacted very strangely.”

Fucking…there wasn’t a way to tell his mother that he’d been wondering how that dress would look on his bedroom floor. That was probably messed up anyway. The boiling feeling was back in his stomach.

“I was just thrown off.” He ran the back of his knife along the fish to descale it. “I’m fine.”

*

Samira was actually having a pretty good time. The value of a home cooked meal could not be understated, and Jodi really was a good cook. Besides Sam being a weirdo for a second there, this family was great at making a guest feel comfortable. They talked about TV shows and music, and then the farm and how it was doing, and even got her talking about her dad.

“He thought I was crazy moving out here,” Samira said. “He was like, Samira, we are city people, we’ve been city people for generations.”

“But your grandfather?” Jodi asked.

“My mom’s dad. Dad like, just forgot about that side of the family.” Samira laughed. It had been in good fun, although she’d been really mad about it at the time. “He’s getting used to the idea, though. I need to call him soon.”

“Do you miss home?” Sam asked. You know what Sam was good at? Eye contact. His eyes were hazel, although in this light they looked almost gold.

“Not really,” Samira said. “There wasn’t much for me in Zuzu.”

“We used to live in Zuzu City,” Vincent said.

“You were only there for a few days after you were born,” Jodi told him. “Then we moved out here.”

Samira turned to Sam. “So you would’ve been…what, a teenager?”

“Barely,” Sam said. “I was thirteen? And like, I was terrible.”

“Everyone’s terrible at thirteen,” Jodi assured him. “And we were moving away from all your friends.”

“Still,” Sam protested.

“Must have been tough, moving so far with a newborn and a middle schooler,” Samira said.

“Well, Kent was home at the time,” Jodi said, nodding at a picture on the wall. “It was almost easy with him.”

The picture was of a younger Jodi, with a blond man who looked like Sam if Sam decided to get absolutely jacked.

Samira didn’t know what to say.

“I think it’s time for dessert,” Jodi said mercifully, standing up. “Vincent, will you help?”

“Yes,” Vincent said, hopping off his chair.

Oh Yoba, they were gonna leave her with Sam. “I can help,” Samira said hastily.

“Nah, nah, you’re the guest,” Sam interrupted, just as quickly. “Mom, let me—”

“Don’t be silly,” Jodi scolded them both. “Samira caught the fish and Sam gutted it, and I cooked it. It’s Vincent’s turn.”

“Yeah, it’s my turn,” Vincent said importantly, hurrying off to the kitchen. “Stay there.”

So Samira did, trapped by social convention. Shit.

She looked back just in time to see Sam checking out her cleavage.

“Hey.” She crossed her arms over her chest. As if this stupid dress wasn’t making her self-conscious enough. “My eyes are up here.”

Sam looked her in the eye and immediately went very pink. “No—dammit, I—I was looking at your necklace, I swear.”

“You swear,” she demanded.

“I swear,” he promised, putting his hands up in self-defense.

Samira let her arms slide down again. “Okay.”

“Not to say you don’t look good,” he added, letting his own hands drop too. “You look great.”

Well. Mixed feelings about that. If she was really mad, she’d be like thanks, I know, but she’d be lying if the external confirmation didn’t help her feel a little better. Even if he was probably lying about ogling her tits. She decided not to give him the satisfaction.

“That makes one of us,” she said. “Is this your idea of dressing up?”

The dude had the nerve to laugh. “No. Sorry, I thought it was Abigail coming. If I dress up, her parents are all like, ohh, look how nice Sam looks, why can’t you dress up nice like that.”

“Weird brag for someone who doesn’t seem to own shirts with buttons,” Samira shot back.

“I have at least four of those.” Sam was smiling that stupid crooked smile of those.

She’d wipe that smile off his face. “Any that aren’t flannel?”

Sam laughed again. “Ouch.”

This man was unroastable. Where was his ego? This wasn’t even fun, he was just endearing. She fiddled with her necklace; it was her Yoba one. An excess of necklaces would have been truer to the goth aesthetic, but she already felt overdressed and this was the only one she always wore.

“Why were you looking at my necklace anyway?” she muttered.

“I um…okay, be straight with me,” he said, leaning in closer.

“Okay?”

Sam lowered his voice a little. “Are you really religious?”

Oh shit, Jodi must have been talking. Samira grimaced. “I may have…exaggerated a little. To make a point.”

“Huh.” Sam was doing that really good eye contact thing again. Felt like he was looking into her soul.

“It’s not that I like, don’t believe in Yoba, I just…your mom might have made some assumptions and I felt like…” Samira grimaced. “I’m not gonna make us all look bad, am I? So I went a little harder than I would normally.”

“Us?” Sam asked.

“Like Gotoro people.” Samira shrugged helplessly. “I’m not some kind of pious weirdo, I just do religious stuff slightly more than a normal amount. Partially to save face. That’s not weird.”

“Sure, sure,” Sam said. She expected him to laugh, but he looked like he was chewing on an idea.

“Can you say something?” she said, snapping more than she meant to. “You’re the one who asked.”

Sam considered, and then said, “Did I say that you look amazing?”

“Yes.” Samira was starting to get impatient. “Have you been avoiding me, Sam?”

This seemed to stun him. “I…why would you…”

“It’s just like, everywhere I am, you’re not, even when Sebastian and Abigail are, and that seems weird. I know we’re not close, but still.”

He shook his head. “I don’t know what…”

“Can you be straight with me now?” Samira demanded.

That gave him pause. He didn’t look at her for a second, just the table.

“Yeah,” he said finally. “Okay. It’s just that…that I don’t know…I don’t know how to think about…you.”

To this Samira had no reply, except to say, “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

Sam took a deep breath. “Look—”

“Dessert is pink cake!” Vincent declared, marching into the room with two plates of the aforementioned cake and setting them in front of Samira and Sam. “It’s my favorite, Samira, I bet you’ll like it.”

“Oh—hey, thank you,” Samira said, accepting the outstretched fork as well. “Thanks, Vincent.”

“He even helped make it earlier today,” Jodi said, exiting the kitchen and placing a plate in front of Vincent and herself.

“Looks delicious,” Sam said, entirely back to his usual self. As if that conversation had never even happened.

So Sam was avoiding her. Because he…didn’t know how to think of her? What??

One thing was for sure. Whatever grinding machinations Sam’s brain was going through were his problem, not Samira’s. He’d have to figure this out without her.

Samira took a bite of cake. It was delicious.

Chapter Text

Sam lay awake all night thinking after Samira came to dinner, which was precisely what he’d hoped to avoid by avoiding her.

On the one hand, Samira was a smokin’ hot goth babe and it was almost impossible to ignore that now. Just in the short conversation they’d had alone, he’d had a hard time focusing on anything but kissing her.

On the other hand…well, his mother didn’t seem to have any problems hanging out with a Gotoro person, but his mother was convinced Samira was very religious, and she wouldn’t ever say it out loud, but he knew that Mom’s religion and politics were very tightly entwined. Mom probably thought Samira agreed with her on like, the existence of the war and stuff, and Sam couldn’t imagine that was true.

Then again, he didn’t know. Maybe Samira did agree. He hadn’t asked. He’d been avoiding her. And he’d been avoiding her because thinking about the fact that she was Gotoro was just too difficult. And maybe Abigail was right! Maybe that made him racist!!

The thoughts circled around his head like vultures.

He played guitar for a while, but he was too distracted and playing like shit, so he quit that. There was a game he’d been meaning to try that Sebastian said was good, but he couldn’t focus on the tutorial and ended up quitting before he even got to the character creator. Around 2am he tried to sleep. This effort was unsuccessful.

It was maybe six in the morning when he texted Penny, do you think i’m racist?

He kinda worried that he’d wake her up, but the little typing bubble popped up almost immediately. She was an early riser.

penny lane: I think racism is something you perpetuate by action, rather than something you are or aren’t.

Sam read this carefully twice through before letting his phone fall to his chest. Something you do. Was he doing racism?

Another message came through. He lifted his phone.

penny lane: What are you doing awake?

He texted back, couldn’t sleep

penny lane: This is really bothering you, isn’t it?

Relief washed over him. yeah, he texted. Penny was so good, she’d know what to do.

penny lane: Unfortunately, since we are white, I think it’s pretty easy for us to take racist actions without even realizing it.

Sam groaned. C’mon, Penny! so what do we do

penny lane: It’s our responsibility to learn more and try to minimize the harm we do.

Learn more. Okay. Hm.

He could always look stuff up on his phone, but he was a slow reader and that sounded like it sucked. There was his computer, but he was pretty sure his mom snooped on his search history and he didn’t want to have the conversation with Sebastian about how to clean it, because then Sebastian would have questions that Sam didn’t want to answer.

He texted, how do i learn more without the internet?

The answer came back promptly, and honestly made him feel a little stupid—

penny lane: The library?

…yeah that tracks. okay.

But that sucked. It sucked a lot. That meant going and asking a real human person he didn’t know for help.

Could he even do that?

*

“So I think I’m going to ask Samira out,” Sebastian said casually over their game of pool.

Sam was doing worse than usual, having not slept basically at all, so it took him a second to even process what Sebastian said. To buy time, he said, “What?”

“What makes you think you’ve got a chance with her?” Abigail teased. “You know emos and goths are mortal enemies.”

Sebastian rolled his eyes. “We are adults now, you know that right?”

Sam’s stomach started roiling. Why was it worse today? Because he was tired? “When are you…when?”

“Next few days probably.” Sebastian hit the cue ball, missed his target, and made a little dissatisfied sound. “I could use advice.”

“What kind of advice?” Sam asked, circling the table to find the best spot to hit the cue ball.

“I don’t know like…where the fuck do you take a girl in this town, anyway?” He tried to spin his pool cue in his hand, slowly. “Abigail, what do the females like?”

“Well for one thing, we don’t like being called females,” Abigail scoffed.

“That’s an easy one, Seb, c’mon,” Sam interjected.

Sebastian made a face that Sam immediately clocked as…oh shit.

“Are you nervous?” Sam asked.

“No,” Sebastian lied, scowling.

“Aww, that’s sweet,” Abigail said, a little mockingly.

“Shut up,” Sebastian said testily. “I’m not nervous. I’m fine, this is no big deal.”

Sam knew for a fact that the last several relationships Sebastian had had were with girls he’d met online. To his memory, Sebastian had never had an irl girlfriend. No wonder.

“For real though, you don’t have to be nervous,” Abigail said. “You’re a good-looking guy and you play an instrument and you have a motorcycle. That goes a long way.”

“You think I can use the motorcycle?” Sebastian said dubiously. “It’s not finished.”

“That’s even better,” Abigail said, pointing a finger to punctuate the statement. “That shows you can make stuff, you’re not just a guy who collects stuff with engines.”

“All right.” Sebastian examined the board, and set himself up to shoot. “Thanks.”

Abigail beamed. Huh. That was a new vibe from Abigail. If Sam was less tired, he might investigate.

In the meantime, Sebastian had hit one ball into a pocket and was lining up for another. He was going to ask out Samira. And Abigail was right, Sebastian was handsome and cool and had the easy disaffected air that Sam knew he’d never have. Samira would totally say yes.

And then Sebastian would be the one who got to see that dress on his bedroom floor.

Fuck.

“Sam?” Sebastian said.

Sam came back to the present. “What?”

Sebastian gestured with his pool cue. “Your turn.”

“Sorry, zoning out.” Sam observed the pool table.

If he was gonna do something—if he had any kind of chance with Samira, if he didn’t want to lose her—he had to do something now.

“This stripey motherfucker is going in the corner pocket,” Sam said, and hit the cue ball. And to Sebastian’s chagrin, that stripey motherfucker went into the corner pocket.

Hell yeah.

*

Gunther was cataloging the books returned this morning—a horse book of some kind from Jas and another piece of overblown literary fiction from Lewis—when a patron stuck his head in the door.

The patron was a tall gangly young man, with some kind of rock-and-roll haircut that was thirty percent gel. The young man peeked around the corner, all covert-like. He was…not very stealthy.

“Can I help you with something?” Gunther asked.

To the young man’s credit, he did not jump, but he did look startled. He took a second to recover, closed the door carefully behind him, and approached the desk. “Uh…hi.”

“Howdy,” Gunther answered promptly. “What can I do for you?”

The youth looked him over carefully. Puzzling out the hayseed accent, perhaps? Or maybe just thrown by the cowboy hat. “You guys lend books here, right?”

“We do,” Gunther said.

“For free?” the youth elaborated.

“Do you have a library card?”

The youth thought about it for a minute, and then dug out his wallet. “Like this? It’s from the last guy, is that all right?”

Gunther observed a little-used card with faded childish handwriting labeling this card as “Sam’s.”

“That’ll do nicely,” Gunther said. “Are you looking for anything specific?”

Sam rubbed the back of his head. “Yeah, uh…do you have any books about the Gotoro Empire?”

Gunther very carefully did not let his surprise show. He was only halfway through a master’s in library science, but the sacred promise of the librarian was access to information regardless of why. “We have a few. This way.”

He led Sam to the 900s. (History and Geography—should he update the Dewey to the Library of Congress system?) Behind him, Sam sneezed a couple times, and Gunther internally cringed. “Sorry about the dust.”

“Ah, it’s cool,” Sam said, and sneezed again.

“It’s hard to run the place by myself,” Gunther said, and pointed to a shelf that was on the kid’s eye level, if not his. “Okay, here we have a few histories…probably the most comprehensive one is this one.” He tapped a multi-volume epic that he knew was painfully dry. “I don’t recommend it unless you’re an academic or enjoy self-flagellation, though. This one…” He slid a thick tome out of the shelf and held it out to Sam. “This one is much more digestible.”

Sam took the book. Even in this young man’s hands, it looked like a brick. Gunther could almost see him wither.

“I’m uh…not much of a reader.” The young man swallowed. “I can try it, though.”

Gunther checked the shelf again. Propaganda, propaganda, dry historical text, even drier historical text, short book about a historical event that was highly specific, propaganda…really the only good book on the Gotoro Empire they had was in Sam’s hand. He’d have to rectify that. And in the meantime…

“How do you feel about audiobooks?” Gunther asked.

The lanky youth started to un-wilt a little. “Audiobooks? You have those?”

“We do,” Gunther confirmed. “Why don’t we put this back and I’ll get you set up on the digital library?”

“Hell yeah.” Sam slid the book back into its place and shoved his hands in his pockets. “That I can do.”

Another win for the library, Gunther thought to himself, and led Sam back to the desk.

Chapter Text

Spring was coming to an end, with the warm weather and the thoughts of crop rotation, both of which burrowed into Samira’s mind and gave her a headache. At least she kind of knew what she was doing farm-wise now. On every other front, though…

*

“Samira! I need your help!”

Samira nearly dropped the can of soup she was thinking about adding to her order at Pierre’s, even though she didn’t like this kind. “Fuck—Abigail?”

Abigail seized her arm. “Tell me you’re not busy.”

Samira carefully extricated her arm. “I guess I’m not—what’s happening?”

“I need backup on this level of Prairie King, and you’re the only one who can help,” she said, folding her hands together. “Will you? Please? Pretty please?”

“Okay?!” She put the can of soup back, and her hand was immediately seized by Abigail, who dragged her into the back of the store, down the hall, and to one of the doors marked “Private.” “Abigail, let go.”

“How are you at video games anyway?” Abigail did let her go, but only to open the door and lead her into the room. “Like you don’t have to be perfect—”

“I’m okay, thank you,” Samira said, a little scornfully. What the fuck was Abigail’s game here?

“Good, then this’ll work great.” Abigail motioned her into the room, which was decorated like the ocean, with little fish painted onto the walls. There were two cushions in front of a TV and console as well. Abigail sat in one of them. “C’mon!”

“Why is this so urgent?” Samira said, taking a seat beside her.

“When else am I gonna see you, you’re always working!” Abigail put the controller in her hands. “You played before?”

“Only on PC, where’s the trigger?”

“It’s X, left stick to move, right stick to target.” The game was already pulled up to the two-player start screen, so Abigail pressed the start. “Let’s go.”

The game itself was pretty hard, and the change in controls took a second to get used to, but Samira knew Journey of the Prairie King, so she was holding her own. Abigail was clearly practiced. Even so, this level was tough. Samira played silently, but Abigail muttered a constant stream of threats at all the little enemies streaming towards them until too soon, the two of them were overwhelmed, and the Game Over screen appeared.

“Ugh,” Abigail groaned, leaning back against her bed. “Shit, that’s a tough level.”

To Samira’s surprise, she wasn’t disappointed. That was fun. “I should have played with you more on Friday nights. Then we could have really kicked some ass.”

“Yeah, thanks for trying anyway,” Abigail said, laying a hand on Samira’s thigh.

Samira’s spine went rigid.

Abigail seemed to notice, and removed her hand. “Sorry. I…sorry.”

Samira could breathe again. She swallowed. “Were you just…did you just try to hit on me?”

Abigail blushed. “That depends. Did it work?”

“I’m straight,” Samira said hastily. “Sorry.”

“You don’t have to apologize, don’t be silly,” Abigail said liltingly—laboriously lilting, trying hard to brush the incident off. She nudged Samira with an elbow. “I hope I didn’t come off too strong.”

Samira tensed again. “Can you…stop touching me?”

Abigail frowned. “Why?”

“It makes me uncomfortable,” Samira said impatiently. She shouldn’t have to give a reason.

Her jaw clenched. “Because I’m queer?”

“No!” Samira leaned away from her. “I don’t like anyone touching me. I’m not a homophobe.”

Abigail didn’t seem to hear that bit. “Because I know that like, the Gotoro Empire is pretty strict about—”

“We’re not in the Gotoro Empire,” Samira snapped. “And there are gay Gotoro people too, you know. It’s not just for white people. Are you hearing yourself?”

Abigail was struck speechless.

Samira had to hold onto her own wrist and squeeze to keep from saying something meaner than that. This was why you didn’t get close to people! This was why it was easier to be alone!

And worse, even though Samira was not in the wrong here, she could see the horror on Abigail’s face, and she felt guilt.

“I just don’t like to be touched,” Samira said through gritted teeth.

“I’m—I’m really sorry,” Abigail stuttered.

Samira stood up and left, because that was the only thing she could think to do.

*

Abigail texted her the next day with a heartfelt apology and an assurance that if Samira was willing, she’d like to remain friends. Samira didn’t know how to handle that.

On the one hand, Abigail had really crossed a line with the comment about Gotoro homophobia. And was it ever easy to be around someone you had romantic feelings for? It wasn’t in Samira’s experience. Then again, maybe Abigail wasn’t so much pursuing romance as shooting her shot. Maybe this was no big deal to Abigail.

Samira wasn’t sure if it was a big deal to her.

She usually went up to the mountain lake on Thursdays to fish anyway, but today she left her fishing stuff at home and just walked. She had to clear her head. She had to focus.

It wasn’t until she heard a clank that she realized, passing by Sebastian’s house, that his garage door was open.

Maybe Robin was here. That’d be nice, to talk to Robin. Then again, maybe Robin’s husband was there, or her daughter, who Samira hadn’t met yet, but apparently were not white? Maybe that would be good?

But to Samira’s surprise, it was Sebastian who emerged from the garage, wiping his hands on a rag and observing the garage’s contents thoughtfully—a motorcycle.

Samira paused, still a little way away. Sebastian was wearing a white tank top stained with car grease along with his usual tight black pants. His hair was a little tousled, but fashionably so. He looked hot. Damn.

He glanced up, surveyed her for a moment, and gestured with his head, come here.

Samira was drawn in, she’d admit that freely. Shit, he was cool. Still, no reason to lose her head just because a hot boy wanted to talk to her. She meandered over, as if she was in no hurry at all.

“What’s up?” Samira said casually. “Nice bike.”

“Guess I never showed it to you before,” Sebastian said, shoving the rag into his back pocket. “What do you think?”

Fuck, Samira didn’t know anything about cars. Or motorcycles, which were like small dangerous cars. She looked it over for some kind of a brand or emblem and found none. Shit. Oh, wait that was a question— “What kind is it?”

“A little of this, a little of that,” Sebastian shrugged. “The frame’s a Harley, but I’ve built it out of parts from several different bikes.”

“You built it?” Samira was impressed.

Sebastian smiled, looking, just for a brief moment, sheepish. “Yeah. It’s no big deal.”

“It’s a big deal, that’s sick,” Samira protested, and looked at the motorcycle with new eyes. “It’s gorgeous, too.”

“Thanks,” Sebastian said. “Sometimes at night I like to drive out of the Valley. Toward Zuzu.”

“Yeah?” Samira looked to him, because it felt like he was building to something.

“Yeah, there’s nothing else like it.” He was leaning up against the frame of the garage door, looking poetically into the middle distance. “Blazing along the empty stretch of road toward the faint city glow…”

Samira suppressed a smile. Fuckin’ emos. “Let me guess, someday you’ll get out of this podunk town?”

“Yeah, once I’ve saved enough,” Sebastian said, entirely missing Samira’s tone, apparently. “To the city and beyond it, see some shit for once. Just me and my bike.”

It was pretty Romantic, in a capital R kind of way, but Samira had grown up in Zuzu City, and kids there said the same kinds of things. Someday we’ll have enough money to rent our own place, and get out of our parent’s house…And it wasn’t like she could be scornful about it. That had been her, until she’d been lucky enough to open an envelope that contained a whole house. She couldn’t blame Sebastian, but hating the place you lived was a poor excuse for a personality.

“Hey,” he said, straightening up and drawing nearer. “Maybe I’ll take you for a ride someday.”

Yoba, he was close, and he smelled like cigarettes. Samira swallowed. She…didn’t like this. He was too close. He looked like he was going to touch her.

“I’m scared of motorcycles,” she blurted.

Sebastian’s eyebrows shot up. “What?”

“Like, my dad’s a nurse,” Samira went on, and this wasn’t even a lie, but she was being really fucking awkward about it. “You know how many people our age eat shit on motorcycles? Ruin their lives that way?”

Sebastian leaned away, to her relief. “Are you for real?”

“Yeah,” Samira insisted. Dad had made her promise never to get on a motorcycle, and though she’d thought it was weirdly reactionary before, she was grateful for it now.

Sebastian smiled. Kind of indulgently. Like…oh fuck off, he was flirting with her. He had been this whole time. “There’s no need to worry. I’ll make sure you’re safe.”

Flirting. Twice in two days. And yeah, Sebastian was hot, but he clearly wasn’t listening to her right now.

Samira crossed her arms. “Thanks, but…pass.”

He looked momentarily stunned, and then a little huffy. “Okay. Never mind then.” He turned back to his bike, crouching beside it. “Can you hand me that pan?”

There was a black-spattered pan of some kind on the other side of the bike; Samira slid it underneath with one foot. She should leave. This was weird now. “Later, Sebastian.”

“Later,” he said, and his disaffected cool was entirely back in place.

Samira stormed away. As if she didn’t have enough to think about.

*

Sam ducked out of his door, whistling. He carried his skateboard under one arm just in case he found a spot unsupervised to try out some tricks, and headed out for an afternoon of goofing off.

The bush in front of Emily and Haley’s house squeaked.

Sam paused. Sounded too big to be a squirrel. A raccoon maybe? But it was broad daylight.

“Fuck,” said a voice, very softly.

Okay, well, raccoons didn’t swear. Sam meandered over and peered into the bushes. “Hello?”

“What do you want?” Through the branches of the bush glared Samira.

“Oh hi.” Sam felt that unease roiling again in his stomach. He had decided, after much deliberation, that if Samira wanted to go out with Sebastian, she should. He wasn’t going to try to make a move first. He didn’t know enough yet. “What are you…what are you doing?”

“Collecting salmonberries.” Samira was full of tension, frozen. Why?

“Are you okay, or…” Sam studied her face.

She grimaced. “I’m stuck.”

“Oh.” Yeah, actually, now that Sam was looking, her hair was caught in the branches in two places. He reached out. “Here.”

“Do not fucking touch me,” Samira snapped.

Sam withdrew his hand hastily. “Okay. Okay.” She was really upset, but then again, Sam would be too if his hair was caught in a bush. “Can I help at all?”

She considered this, and swallowed. “Um…hold the branch still? If you can reach.”

He could, very easily. “Both of them?”

“Fuck, it’s caught in two places?” Samira huffed. “Yeah, both of them.”

Sam put down his skateboard and held onto the branches, pressing them down a little, trying to give her some slack. She reached up and quickly unraveled the ends of her hair from one branch, and then the next. “Okay. Let ‘em go.”

Sam did, and carefully, Samira extricated herself and a basket full of yellow and pink berries from the bush until she was sitting on the grass beside it.

“You good?” he asked.

“I’m good,” she sighed, and then glared at him. “So are you done avoiding me or what?”

Sam shrugged. “Yeah. I decided that was stupid.” And probably racist. “Are you…are you okay?”

“What do you mean?” she said, scowling.

“I tried to get your hair out of the bush and you like, nearly bit me.” Sam thought about offering her a hand up, but opted to sit down beside her instead. “So like…you feeling okay?”

Samira heaved a sigh and covered her face with her hands. “Shit. I don’t know. Sorry to snap at you.”

“It’s cool, you can always tell someone not to touch you,” Sam said.

Samira took her hands off her face and examined him with narrowed eyes, for an awkwardly long amount of time. Sam didn’t look away. It was nice to sit by her, even if he was being weighed and measured. That was fine. Gave him a chance to look at her face.

“People have been pushing my boundaries for three fucking days, that’s all,” she said finally. “I guess…thanks for not doing that.”

“You don’t like being touched,” Sam said, just to make the boundary crystal clear.

“Nope,” she said.

He made a mental note. “How come?” He, personally, often wished he lived someplace where people were much more touchy-feely—he was literally always up for a hug. The Gotoro Empire was supposed to be one such place, so this was interesting.

“Were you never bullied as a kid?” Samira said impatiently.

“You know literally everyone I went to middle and high school with,” Sam said, chuckling. “Or—hey have you met Penny and Maru yet?”

“No, I…no.” She drew her knees up to her chest, wrapping her arms around them. “I just…I had it bad for a pretty long time. Until I started scaring people away.”

Oh. Shit. Sam nodded, and then for lack of better things to say, said, “Makes sense.”

They were quiet for a minute. Sam watched clouds. You know, he thought…even if Samira did end up dating Sebastian, it’d be nice to have her as a friend.

“Here,” she said suddenly, putting some of the berries into his hand. The tips of her fingers touched his palm, very briefly.

“Thanks,” he said, popping them into his mouth, and then immediately spitting them out. “What the fuck, those are disgusting!”

Samira laughed, and ate a couple. “It’s an acquired taste.”

Chapter Text

It was starting to get hot as summer broke over Stardew Valley, but this did not dissuade Samira from going out full goth. Some days she even did extra makeup, complicated eyeliner and dark lipstick. She personally didn’t go in for the super pale foundation—the point was to scare people away, and being Gotoro did that job nicely—and that was all the better as the weather got hotter. She would have sweated it all off.

She was particularly happy about her look today; she’d used red eyeshadow and outlined the bridge of her nose in eyeliner, along with a heavy cat eye. Moon had watched her apply the makeup with interest, but he watched everything with interest, including dust motes and shadows. Nevertheless, Samira found herself happy for the company.

Despite her intention to scare people, however, several townsfolk had said hello in a way that seemed completely unfazed, including Caroline, somehow. Jas had very respectfully told her that her face was pretty today, and Samira couldn’t help but be pleased by that. Only Clint had seemed intimidated, and that was almost too easy.

It was later that day when she came up from fishing at the beach, pleased with her haul and thinking about how much to keep and sell, when she heard a guitar squeal.

The sound came from an open window in Sam’s house—must be Sam’s room, because there was his voice, saying, “You’re out of your mind.”

“You got a better idea?” said the voice of Sebastian.

“Anything’s a better idea than noise rock!”

Oh now she was curious. Careful to avoid Jodi’s trash can, Samira leaned her elbows on the windowsill and watched the argument unfold.

“It’s smart,” Sebastian insisted. He was standing at a keyboard, a pretty nice one if Samira was clocking it correctly. “If we aren’t supposed to sound like anything, no one can tell us we’re doing it wrong.”

“I would rather die,” Sam shot back. He was wearing an old Nirvana t-shirt—the kind from a big box store made to look vintage—with the sleeves cut off and the arm holes torn open for…ventilation, Samira guessed? It was a good look for a man holding an electric guitar. “I would rather move to Zuzu City just to play the same three chords every Sunday at the Cathedral of Yoba for the rest of my life.”

“Harsh,” Samira commented, and both boys looked up abruptly.

“What are you, spying on us?” Sebastian asked, while Sam’s eyes darted around his room, probably checking for anything embarrassing. It was actually surprisingly neat in here.

“I was just hoping to catch some hot new experimental noise rock,” Samira said, shrugging. “Sorry, you can get back to your band practice.”

“It’s cool, you don’t need to go,” Sam said, rather quickly. He must have decided there was nothing incriminating in his room. “Maybe you can help, actually…do you really like noise rock?”

“Some of it, but I hate the rest,” Samira said. “Like…when you try to be deliberately incomprehensible, I think you risk appealing to nobody.”

“You’d know, I guess,” Sebastian muttered, not quite quiet enough to be inaudible.

Samira glared at him. He was right, but there was no reason to call her out like that.

“What do you listen to then?” Sam asked, apparently unfazed by this. Or maybe he didn’t hear.

“Uh.” Samira gestured to herself. “Goth music?”

“Like metal or…” Sebastian attempted.

Sam looked offended before Samira could even say anything. “Dude, you are embarrassing me. Like um…Bauhaus, right?”

“Bauhaus is goth, yes,” Samira said, pleased despite herself. “There’s more to it than that, like it’s been forty years.”

“It’s not my area of expertise,” Sam said apologetically. “I mean, you get into those influences with post-punk anyway, but I don’t know as much as I should.”

Samira was impressed. “You know more than most.”

Sam smiled. “I try. So…we’re trying to figure out our sound. That’s how we got to noise rock.”

“Okay?” Aw, shit, he wanted her to moderate a band discussion? She was fairly sure that unlike Abigail, who she’d actually hung out with since the flirting incident, Sebastian had not tolerated being brushed off quite so well. Especially given the comment he’d just made. Then again, Sam was looking at her like a hopeful puppy. What was she going to do, say no? “I guess…what do you like to play most?”

“Anything that shreds,” Sam said, grinning.

“I prefer something a little more keys-forward,” Sebastian said.

“There’s stuff that’s both.” Samira had to think for a moment. “Pink Floyd.”

“Oh hell yes!” Sam declared.

Sebastian scowled. “Pink Floyd isn’t keys-forward.”

“Pink Floyd doesn’t work without Richard Wright, man,” Sam assured him.

“Still.” Sebastian crossed his arms.

“Well what kind of stuff do you want to play?” Samira was starting to lose patience with this guy.

Sebastian considered, and then lifted his hands above the keys.

“It can’t be Lady Gaga,” Sam interjected.

Sebastian let his hands drop and glowered. “Lady Gaga is a Julliard-educated pianist.”

“She is?” This was news to Samira.

“Don’t get him started.” Sam rolled his eyes.

“Fuck off,” Sebastian said, and he played a driving song that sounded really intense. It was keys-forward, he was right. It’d be difficult to arrange this for a different instrument.

“What’s this?” Samira asked. “I kinda like it.”

“It’s ‘Paper Gangsta,’” Sam sighed.

“Lady Gaga’s ‘Paper Gangsta,’” Sebastian said, finishing the musical phrase just in time to rest his case.

“It doesn’t have a guitar part,” Sam complained.

Sebastian threw a hand at Samira in the window. “That wasn’t the question! The question was what I’d like to play!”

“Man I always include you thinking about what I want to play.” Sam played a riff that sounded familiar and looked to Sebastian expectantly.

Sebastian sighed.

“C’mon,” Sam said, grinning, and played a little more.

Sebastian glared at his keyboard, and then very deliberately played a set of chords in a particular rhythm.

“It’s ‘Oye Cómo Va!’” Samira said, in a burst of realization.

“Yeah!” Sam turned that smile on her, and then it faltered. “I can never remember the words though, isn’t that stupid?”

“There’s only one stanza,” Samira said thoughtfully. “I know the words.”

“Do you sing?” Sebastian asked casually, as if that wasn’t a crazy thing to ask a girl hanging in a window at an informal band practice at fucking Sam’s house.

“I…kind of. A little.”

“That’s enough for us,” Sam declared, and he and Sebastian started to play in total synch.

Fucking hell, they wanted her to sing. Mortifying. The cue was coming up. Shit.

Shut up, she told herself sternly. This was just like karaoke. Advanced karaoke. And it would be impressive, and she liked singing, dammit. It’d be fine. Don’t miss the cue.

“Oye cómo va,” Samira sang. “Mi ritmo—bueno pa’ gozar, mulata.”

Sam looked up in delight as she went over the stanza again, trying to sing with a little passion since the tune itself wasn’t complicated. It was about trying to hit on a girl, show off how good Santana was at rhythm, so Samira went for sexy, and found herself singing to Sam. Just watching his lead, really, that was all. It felt good to jam.

They went through one chorus and a bit of the instrumental stuff before Sam held up a hand. “Hang on, hang on—okay.” Sebastian had stopped playing. “Okay this is something. Uh—Samira, do you know ‘Tainted Love?’ That’s kind of gothy.”

“By Soft Cell?…I’d have to look up the second verse I think, but…yeah.”

“You know that one?” Sam asked Sebastian.

“That doesn’t have a real guitar part,” Sebastian warned him.

“I think I can do it anyway,” Sam insisted.

Sebastian gave him a weird look. “You’re going to arrange a song. On the fly. It’s a synthpop song.”

“It was a soul song first,” Sam said.

Samira’s eyebrows shot up. “Really?”

Sam grinned. “Cool, right?”

Sebastian shrugged and made a couple adjustments to his keyboard. “Am I leading us in on this arrangement or are you?”

Hastily Samira looked up the lyrics on her phone while Sebastian and Sam negotiated, and then Sam said, “You ready?”

“I guess so,” she said, locking her phone and praying she remembered what she just read.

“All right, one. Two. Three. Four.” Sam played.

This was a weird version of “Tainted Love.” It felt a little more hair metal than goth, and it certainly wasn’t synthpop. But Sebastian was holding up the whole song, and Sam sounded incredible.

Shit, the cue— “Sometimes I feel I’ve got to—”

Sebastian and Sam both slapped their instruments in time, and Samira giggled a little through the next line—

“Run away, I’ve got to…get away…”

Samira was impressed with Sam’s selection here. It was gothy, but it was also solidly within Samira’s vocal range. And she liked it. And it was easy to get into it, really feel the song. She sang most of it to Sebastian this time, who was focusing too hard to notice.

This was fun.

“Don’t touch me please, I cannot stand the way you tease!” Samira sang, glorying in the viscerality she could throw into her voice. “I love you, though you hurt me so, now I’ve got to pack my things and go!”

Now began the radio edit part, where you just sang the same thing over and over until the song faded away, but luckily someone started clapping. Startled, all three of them stopped in a ridiculous cacophony to find Jodi in the doorway.

“Mom!” Sam was equal parts shocked and mortified.

Jodi covered her mouth to stifle a laugh. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to ruin the end. But you all sound quite good!”

“Thank you,” Sebastian said, with zero irony, but Sam started to blush.

“I didn’t know you sang,” Jodi said to Samira.

“Just for fun, mostly,” Samira said, laughing nervously. Yoba’s sake, she wasn’t going to ask her to start singing hymns or something, was she?

“Mom, we’re trying to practice,” Sam said, more politely than Samira would have expected from a white boy. Why were white kids so rude to their parents? Except for this white kid, anyway.

“I know, but I told you I had a call to make at six,” Jodi said.

“Shit, is it six already?” Sebastian pulled his phone out of his pocket. “I gotta get home.”

“All right, we’ll call it a day,” Sam said authoritatively, as if this was his idea. “Sorry, Mom.”

“You’re okay,” Jodi said, wandering away.

“I should probably get home too,” Samira said, still coasting the high of the music. “Um…thanks? That was fun.”

“Do you want to join our band?” Sam blurted.

“What?” Sebastian and Samira said at the same time.

“You’ve got a great voice!” Sam explained. “You’ve got rhythm and a natural instinct for music—you’d be great!”

Sebastian considered this idea. “A unique vocalist could really make us stand out.”

The idea was…flattering. It was certainly the setup for a children’s sitcom, which had a sort of primitive appeal to a past, non-goth version of Samira. But present Samira found herself recoiling. Joining a band meant getting involved with people. Drama, codependence, entanglements. Sure, singing with her friends was fun as a game, but as something formal?

“You don’t need a singer,” Samira snapped, and she didn’t mean to snap, but she was starting to feel trapped. “You need a drummer.”

Sam looked disappointed. “I’m a drummer.”

“You can’t play drums and guitar at the same time,” Samira said, rolling her eyes. “Abigail’s a drummer, why don’t you ask her?”

“We’ve been over this,” Sebastian sighed. “It’s like letting your kid sister join the band. Except worse, because at least Maru wouldn’t be so eager about it.”

Sebastian was looking less hot all the time. He was so dismissive.

“I think you’re right, for the record,” Sam said, taking his guitar off his shoulder and leaning it carefully on its stand. “Sebastian’s always been against it.”

“Would you let Vincent join the band too?” Sebastian scoffed.

Sam stabbed his palm with one finger to punctuate his point. “In a fucking heartbeat.”

Samira couldn’t help it, she laughed. He was so earnest. “I’m out of here. Good luck finding your sound.”

Sam turned back toward the window. “Hey uh—thanks for singing with us. Even if you don’t want to join the band, we should do it again.”

“Maybe.” That sounded honestly like a great time. “We’ll see. Bye guys.”

*

“Hey boys!”

Sam didn’t turn around as Abigail came into the game room at the saloon; too busy losing at pool. “Hey Abs.” He hit the ball, and it spun harmlessly into the middle of the felt. “Dammit.”

“Nice,” Sebastian said with a chuckle.

“How’d it go?” Abigail asked, plopping down to watch them play. “Asking Samira out?”

Sebastian paused in the process of chalking his cue. Sam watched him flex his jaw, chewing on the thought. It was upsetting him to talk about this, but Sam felt no need to moderate his feelings for once.

“She is scared of motorcycles,” Sebastian said finally. “It was a bust.”

Sam successfully suppressed the urge to pump his fist in the air victoriously.

“Aw, I’m sorry Sebastian,” Abigail said, though she didn’t sound terribly sorry.

Sebastian shrugged. “Whatever.”

On the one hand, Sam thought, watching Sebastian sink two balls in one particularly skillful hit, that meant Sam had a chance, and that thought twinkled in his chest like a star. On the other hand…well, Sam wasn’t cooler than Sebastian. No one was. If Sebastian didn’t have a shot, how could Sam?

Better, maybe, to keep her as a friend.

“Hey Abigail, you should join our band,” Sam said.

Sebastian scratched on the felt. “What?”

“Absolutely, I accept!” Abigail clasped her hands in front of her. “I thought you’d never ask!”

“Sam!” Sebastian protested.

“Samira’s right, dude, we need her,” Sam said. “It’ll be good.”

Sebastian looked momentarily furious, but he pointed his cue toward Abigail and said, “But you have to be consistent. Come to band practice, do your best.”

“Yes, I know how bands work,” Abigail laughed. “I’m there.”

“And this is a serious band, okay?” Sebastian went on. “You have to take this seriously.”

“If that’s true, why does Sam get to play?” Abigail gave them both a shit-eating grin.

Sam laughed. He’d meant it, this was going to be good. Things were looking up.

Chapter Text

Samira had never liked summer.

Or maybe that wasn’t true, maybe she had liked it at some point. But these days she was a goth, and her accoutrement made summer…difficult.

The main problem was the leather jacket and the layers. It was hot, and much muggier here in this seaside town than Samira was used to, but the thought of shedding her armor made her feel itchy. Exposed skin was an invitation that Samira wasn’t interested in extending, an invitation to be vulnerable, to miss out on control of how she was seen.

So she powered through.

Today was hard, though, sitting on the bridge by the museum and fishing. The sun beat down on her head and shoulders. She’d never had a sunburn before and wondered if she was getting one.

She felt queasy. She’d felt sick all morning and skipped breakfast because of it, and now was wondering if she was about to dry heave into the river. The mayor would love that, wouldn’t he.

At least she wasn’t sweating anymore. She had serious worries about maintaining the silk lining of her jacket. This shit was vintage.

“Hey, Samira!”

Barely moving her head, she looked up. It was Sam, hanging out with Penny of all people, coming from the town square side of the bridge toward the library. Samira managed to lift a hand and wiggle her fingers in a weak facsimile of a wave.

“Fishing?” Sam said, strolling up beside her. Penny looked ill at ease, but she had when Samira had met her too, so maybe she always looked like that. “Any luck?”

“Not much,” Samira said. Huh, her voice was hoarse, that was strange. Had she had any bites all day? In a hazy sort of way, she realized she hadn’t been paying attention. “I think it’s too hot.”

Penny said, “Oh, that’s a shame,” but Samira wasn’t focused on her so much; Sam was studying her.

“Are you okay, dude?” Sam asked, those hazel eyes searching.

Stop studying me, Samira tried to say, and found she just didn’t have the energy to be pissed off. Instead she said, “I don’t know. I think I might be coming down with something.”

“Do you have a fever?” Penny said, lifting a hand to test her forehead, but Sam caught her arm. Gently.

“She doesn’t like to be touched,” Sam explained. “For real though, do you have a fever?”

Oh that was nice. That was really nice actually. Samira was caught off guard for a moment and forgot the question. “Um. What? Fever.”

“Yeah.” Sam frowned, and Penny looked even more ill at ease.

Samira raised her wrist to her forehead. She felt hot, but she couldn’t tell if it was her wrist or her head. Or just the air. Fuck, it was hot out. And she was dizzy.

“I don’t um…” She let her arm drop, and it felt like it was going to fall off. What would her father the nurse say? Had she had enough water? Probably not… “I’m just…a little thirsty.”

The world turned sideways. That was strange. Samira felt her body go ragdoll, flopping over the side of the bridge. The last thing she remembered thinking was how bad this was going to be for her leather jacket.

*

Samira woke up with a gasp, in a panic. No jacket, cold, exposed, unfamiliar bed, back of her hand itched—oh fuck, was that an IV? Where the fuck was she?

“It’s all right,” said a new unfamiliar voice, and two hands covered the IV. Brown hands. “You’re okay.”

“Don’t fucking touch me,” Samira spat, trying to yank her arm away, but either the hands were too strong or she was too weak.

“Are you going to pull out your IV?” The owner of the hands was a girl about Samira’s age, with reddish hair that hung so straight Samira wondered if it was freshly cut. She looked unmoving behind her red plastic glasses.

Something about her stolidness took the fight out of Samira. She collapsed against the thin pillows behind her. “No.”

The girl released her immediately. “Sorry for touching you without permission. I was advised you might do something drastic and wanted to make sure you didn’t hurt yourself.”

“Advised by who?” Waves of weariness washed over her. She reached up to rake her hair out of her face and realized it was damp. All her clothes were gone too, she was in a hospital gown. What the fuck.

“Penny and Sam,” the girl said, and then paused. “I’m going about this wrong. Hi, Samira. I’m Maru. You are in the clinic, by Pierre’s? You were brought in after you fainted and fell into the river.”

Samira blinked a few times. She was already feeling more clear-headed than she had in a couple days. “I fell into the river?”

“Yes.” Maru stood up and started adjusting the IV bag, pouring her some water from a pitcher, other little things. Samira recognized the practiced movements of a nurse. “Have you fainted before?”

“No.” Samira frowned. “Well. Once, when I was exhausted. But I wasn’t exhausted, I’ve been sleeping—why would I have fainted?”

“Heat stroke, I suspect,” came the answer, from a guy striding into this little curtained-off area looking like he maintained the mustache on his face in order to hide how badly he was bullied in high school. He entered carrying a clipboard, reading off of the second sheet of paper. “I’m Harvey, by the way, I’m the doctor here. Do you remember much in the moments before you fell?”

Samira squinted at the ceiling. “Uh…a little.”

“What do you remember?” He let the paper on the clipboard fall flat and gave her his full attention, which inexplicably made Samira feel guilty. “Any symptoms?”

“I was…I was fishing. And…I felt all hot and gross and…confused. Dizzy. Penny asked if I had a fever.”

“Incidentally, you do,” Harvey said, taking a seat beside her in the chair Maru had been using. “It’s not so bad now, which is why we’re rehydrating you—that’s what the IV is. Believe it or not, that plunge in the river may have saved your life. It certainly cooled you down.”

Samira grimaced. Heat stroke was no joke. Her dad would have been so upset. “Are you sure it wasn’t just heat exhaustion?”

“Well let me ask you this: were you sweating?”

“No.” She scowled.

“Heat stroke,” Harvey said, shrugging. “And I believe I know one of the causes.”

“I know, I know, I should be drinking more water,” Samira sighed.

“Yes, but can I ask you about your clothing?””

“Can you tell me where the fuck it is first?” Samira demanded.

Harvey seemed unfazed by her venom. He looked up. “Maru?”

“Penny has it,” Maru said. “She’s in the other room. Do you want me to go get her?”

All the momentum drained out of Samira. Penny was waiting for her? A woman she had barely met and spoke to twice?

“I want my clothes back,” Samira mumbled.

“I’ll get her,” Maru said, and left through the curtain that Harvey had entered through.

Harvey waited until her footsteps were no longer audible before turning back to Samira. “Do you wear that jacket every day?”

“Yes,” Samira said, crossing her arms. Discussing the way she dressed with a strange man was not her idea of a good time.

“It’s beautiful, by the way,” Harvey said, leaning back in his chair. Giving her some space, maybe. “Looks very warm.”

“It’s an aesthetic choice,” Samira said carelessly.

“Clearly,” Harvey said. “And you were wearing two additional layers as well. Neither of them breathable fabrics. In black.”

Samira scoffed, looking away.

“I can’t emphasize enough how lucky you are, Samira,” Harvey said, and his voice was gentle. “Major organ damage was on the table. It still might be. You could have died today. And the thing about heat stroke—it’s not like a virus. If you got it once, you’re more likely to get it again.”

She knew where he was going with this, and it made her furious. And ashamed. She’d been stupid. “So I change the way I dress or I die,” she said bitterly, not yet quite willing to give ground to this guy.

“There have to be gothic summer looks, right?” Harvey postulated. “Something a little cooler? Look, I haven’t had to call a time of death yet in this town, and I’d prefer to keep it that way.”

She looked back at him, really looking at him. Harvey had about ten years on her, maybe more, but his expression was sheepish. She’d succeeded in intimidating him, maybe. That and he definitely had the vibe of an unabashed dork, and that was endearing. The point was, this wasn’t a power trip for him, he meant it.

She sighed. “Okay.”

“Okay!” he said, relieved. “Listen, I am always here to help, but I prefer, medically speaking, not to be needed. You understand.”

“I understand.” She pushed herself upright a little, noticing that most, but not all, of the dizziness was gone. She offered, “My dad’s a nurse. He’s the same.”

“Really!” Harvey brightened. “You see, then.”

Maru appeared then, from behind the curtain. “Is it all right if Penny comes in to say hello?”

“Yeah, I guess,” Samira said.

Harvey stood up as Maru and Penny entered. “I have some paperwork to do, but I’ll come by to check on you later. I’m going to recommend you stay the night here, and I am sorry about that, but I’d prefer to know your kidneys are functional before letting you go.”

“Sure thing, Doc,” Samira sighed. She was not happy about that. Shit, Moon was going to be furious if he didn’t eat for a day. “Thanks.”

“Of course,” Harvey said breezily, and left, leaving Penny settling uneasily into the chair he had vacated. Maru pulled another chair from somewhere else and set it up beside Penny.

“How are you feeling?” Penny said. She was clutching a bundle in a plastic bag that looked damp. Samira mourned her jacket.

“I’m…I’m okay. Better.” Samira pointed. “Those my clothes?”

“Yes, I wasn’t sure what you wanted done with them.” Penny contemplated the bundle in her arms. “I suppose leaving them damp isn’t the best idea.”

“Penny, why are you here?” Samira asked.

She looked startled. “I can..I can go, I—”

“No, that’s not what I meant, I mean—look, you don’t know me, like at all. And I’ve been out for…Maru, how long was I out?”

“Seventy-one minutes,” Maru said promptly.

Samira paused. “That’s really specific.”

“I believe in precision,” Maru responded with not a hint of irony.

“Hm. Okay, so more than an hour.” Samira turned the question back to Penny. “What’s up with that?”

“I wasn’t just going to leave you,” Penny said, almost offended by the idea. “I may not know you well, but I had to make sure you were okay. And you’re Sam’s friend, and Sam’s my best friend.”

“I just mean you didn’t have to.” Samira didn’t like the idea of owing Penny anything. “I mean, I made it here, so I can’t have been in that bad of shape.”

Penny’s mouth dropped open. She looked to Maru. “You didn’t tell her?”

“It didn’t come up when you spoke to Harvey?” Maru asked Samira in turn.

“What didn’t?”

“You didn’t regain consciousness when you fell in the river,” Maru said bluntly. “Sam carried you here. With assistance from Penny.”

Mortification. “What?!”

“And I didn’t actually help much,” Penny added.

Samira covered her face with her hands. “Oh my Yoba, that’s so embarrassing.”

“Why?” Maru wondered. “You would have drowned if he hadn’t fished you out.”

“He fucking fished me out?”

“The river isn’t that deep,” Penny qualified.

“Most drownings take place in less than six inches of water,” Maru said. She sounded like she was quoting something.

“That can’t be true,” Penny protested.

Maru nodded. “It is true.”

“Shit.” Samira felt like her guts were tangled in a knot. She felt acutely the floral patterned gown she was wearing, the distinct lack of black. “This is the worst.”

“Why is she upset?” Maru muttered to Penny.

Penny acted under no illusion that Samira hadn’t heard that. “Well…it is mortifying to be alive,” she posited.

“No, it’s like—” Samira buried her hands in her hair, which was unfortunately all deflated and slicked back now. “I’m never going to live this down, I can’t—I can’t repay him for this! I’m going to owe him! Forever!”

Maru snorted.

“What?” Samira snapped.

“I don’t think I’ve heard someone ever mischaracterize Sam that badly.” Maru chuckled. “I can’t even imagine him remembering this in a week.”

“That’s not very fair,” said Penny cautiously. “I mean, Maru is right about his motives, though. Sam didn’t rescue you because he wanted to extort you.”

“Then why?” Samira demanded.

“Because you needed help, and he was in a position to give it,” Penny said softly. “That’s just who he is.”

Samira groaned, frustrated. “No you don’t…I was supposed to be independent. I wasn’t supposed to need anyone ever again.”

“Well that’s stupid,” Maru commented.

“Excuse me??”

“That’s not how community works,” Maru said simply.

“Oh, that’s a good point,” Penny agreed. “You’re giving one day and receiving the next.”

“I’m not a part of this community,” Samira growled. “I haven’t given anything. I’m Gotoro.”

“And I’m the only black woman in town,” Maru said. “I’m not exempt. Neither are you. Do you have any idea how much you’ve helped Pelican Town just by being here?”

“What are you talking about?”

“I hear people talking,” Maru said. “You’re Pierre and Clint’s best customers. You’re completely revitalizing the museum.”

“Jas and Vincent talk about you all the time,” Penny added. “Jas has informed me that her third favorite color now is black. That’s entirely out of left field for her, it can only be you.”

“You don’t get to do this by yourself.” Maru stared her right in the eye, unblinking. Did she ever blink? “Then again, the good news is…you don’t have to.”

Community. The word hung on her shoulders like…like her jacket, a heavy weight. Her jacket was meant to keep her proof from the community, but maybe…

Maybe the jacket would drag her down. The community was the real armor.

Shit, that was dramatic. She hated it. She hated it mostly because it was probably true.

Samira took a few deep breaths and rubbed her face. “Can one of you…can one of you go to my house and feed my cat?”

Penny smiled. “I’d be happy to. It’d be nice to say hello to a kitty.”

“He doesn’t like to be touched,” Samira warned.

“Reminds me of someone.” Penny winked, which was very teacherly of her, before giggling nervously. “Sorry. What do you want to do with your clothes?”

“Uhh…shit, I don’t want them to mold.” Samira looked down at herself in the clinic gown. “But I’ll probably need them when I need to leave.”

“Why don’t we hang them up here?” Penny suggested, opening the bag in her lap.

“Yeah, okay.” It wasn’t a perfect solution, but it was something.

“You’ll be bored soon,” Maru predicted, standing. “Especially if you’re here all night.”

That was…true, wow. “I guess. Where’s my phone?”

Penny fished it out of the bag with a grimace and handed it to her. “It wouldn’t turn on. We were trying to see if you had emergency contacts.”

“Aw, shit.” Samira accepted the phone and tried a few buttons. Nothing.

“I can fix it if you want,” Maru said casually.

Samira looked up. “For real?”

“I do it all the time,” Maru said, and just as Samira was about to ask about payment, she added, “Don’t ask about payment. It’s good practice. I’ll probably have to fix Sam’s phone too, anyway.”

Samira handed off her phone to Maru, with a little reluctance but mostly gratitude. A free phone fix was more than she’d expected from this sudden acceptance of her place in the community. “Hey, where the fuck is Sam, anyway? He saves me from drowning and then he just fucks off?”

Penny smiled a tiny smile. “He went back for your fishing pole.”

“He…” The thought sent a flare of warmth to her chest that was so unexpected, Samira wondered if she should call Harvey back. “He went back for that?”

*

Sam, dejected and sopping wet in the twilight, made his way to the clinic.

The moment when Samira fell off the bridge kept playing in slow motion in his mind. She was swaying, she said she was thirsty, she fell to one side—

And Sam hadn’t thought twice. He hadn’t thought at all. By the time she hit the water, he had vaulted after her.

The river was knee-deep here—knee-deep on Sam—but not fast, so pulling Samira up wasn’t that difficult. Shockingly easy, actually, she was smaller than he expected. The heaviest part of her seemed to be her jacket and boots. He picked her up like he used to pick up Vincent, supported on his hip, his chest to hers, her chin resting on his shoulder, and was relieved to feel her breathing against him, but by the time he set her down on the grassy bank, she still wasn’t conscious.

That was when he’d started to be afraid.

The rest was all a blur—Penny had said the word “clinic” and suddenly they were there, and Maru and Harvey were taking her back and not saying anything that made any sense, and after what felt like ten years or so Harvey had informed them that she would probably be okay, but they couldn’t see her yet, so Sam had done the only thing he could think to do. Samira liked fishing, and was good at fishing. It’d be a shame if she lost her pole.

He’d looked and looked, until his legs were mud-spattered and the light was giving out, and then he took out his phone to use the flashlight and realized it was bricked.

So, feeling like a failure, he’d gone back to the clinic to check on Samira and apologize.

He’d taken his shoes and socks off ages ago and left them on the riverbank, but he didn’t want to put them back on with his feet all muddy and his socks still wet, so he carried his Converse by the laces with the socks stuffed inside. The grass took care of most of the mud, and the last warmth radiating off the brick pavement dried off his feet a little, but as the light failed and the breeze picked up, Sam found himself shivering. His clothes were still dripping wet.

The door to the clinic was usually locked this late, but Maru met him at the door and opened it for him.

“You can go back and see her, but you have to put your shoes on,” Maru said, before Sam could get a word in edgewise.

“Oh,” Sam said, and then explained, “They’re wet.”

“So are you, but I’m letting you back there.” She held the door open for him, evidently willing to let him put his shoes on inside. He obediently loped inside and sat down, taking the socks from inside his shoes and stuffing them into his pocket. “Oh shit.” He pulled out his phone. “Um, Maru—”

“You need your phone fixed?” She held out her hand.

“Yeah, sorry.” He handed it over.

“It’s good practice,” she assured him.

Once his shoes were on, Maru led him back to the part of the clinic with the beds and stuck her head through a wall of curtains. “Sam’s here.”

“Oh, good,” said Penny’s voice, and Maru drew back the curtain.

The little curtained off room had been draped with black clothing, hanging up to dry. Penny was sitting by the bed holding Samira’s jacket, showing her something about the lining. And Samira…

Samira still looked small. Something about her hair being flat maybe, or not having the spiked jacket. Or maybe everyone looked small in a hospital gown. Sam briefly remembered how easy it was to lift her.

“A weak acid will take out these water stains,” Penny was saying. “Diluted vinegar, maybe. And you can always oil the leather.”

“You know, Vincent was right, we really should be friends,” Samira said, before looking up at Sam and smiling. “Hi.”

For maybe the first time in hours, Sam’s shoulders relaxed. She was okay. “Hi. Uh.” He swallowed, rubbing the back of his head. “I couldn’t find your fishing pole. I’m so sorry, I know it means a lot to you, and—”

“Sam, what the fuck are you talking about?” Samira said. She looked like she was trying not to laugh. “I can get another fishing rod. You saved my life.”

“It wasn’t that big of a deal,” Sam protested.

“No, it was,” Maru said simply, and the thing about Maru was that she didn’t say things she didn’t mean, and also she was a nurse.

“Here, I’m standing up,” Samira said, sliding off of the bed. She had an IV in the back of her hand.

“Careful,” Penny said, hanging the jacket on the back of the chair and standing. “Do you need help?”

“I’m good.” She paused for a moment, scrunching her eyes shut. Dizzy, Sam would guess. He took a cautious step forward, half-ready to catch her if she fainted again.

But she seemed to re-equilibrate relatively quickly, taking a deep breath. “Okay.”

“You cool?” Sam said, scared to be too loud.

“I’m cool, why are you whispering?” She thought this was funny. She was…lighthearted. She’d almost died and she was lighthearted.

Nah, it wasn’t that, she wasn’t being crazy or…or obtuse. Sam was so stressed he wasn’t paying attention, pay attention.

“I think it’s time to go,” Penny said in the silence left by Sam’s non-response. “Mom will be wondering what happened to me. I’ll feed Moon as well.”

“Thanks for…thanks,” Samira attempted.

Penny smiled as a goodbye, and slid out of the curtained room along with Maru, leaving the two of them alone.

“You look more fucked up than I do,” Samira said, scanning his face. “What’s up?”

“I’m…really sorry I couldn’t find your fishing pole,” Sam said. The bubbling in his stomach was back. He’d managed to tamp it down and ignore it in Samira’s presence the last few times he’d seen her, but now it was back. Why?

“Sam, that could not fucking matter less,” Samira told him, dead serious. “I mean it. You saved me. I might have drowned. I might have just…died of heat stroke. Harvey said organ damage isn’t even ruled out yet. It was serious.” She pressed her lips together, as if something was going to escape. Carefully, she spoke again. “And you saved me.”

Sam shrugged. “I wasn’t going to—to just leave you.”

“It was brave,” she insisted.

“Nah, I was scared,” Sam babbled. “I was terrified. I’m just…I’m just glad you’re okay.”

Samira looked away, and Sam worried suddenly that he’d said something wrong, until she scrunched her eyes shut again and gripped the chair.

“Shit, are you dizzy?” Sam stepped forward closer, so he could actually catch her if she fell, but she just took another breath and shook her head.

“Little bit.” She looked back up at him. “I’m never going to be able to repay you—”

“I wouldn’t ask you to do that—” Sam began, but Samira interrupted him again.

“Dude, I know, and I know you didn’t do it because you wanted repaying, I just…I need you to know. How much I…I’m grateful.”

Gratitude. That was the lightheartedness. She was happy to be alive. The part of Sam that refused to accept the epithet of her rescuer softened, just a little.

“It’s cool,” Sam began. “I—”

She threw her arms around him, resting her head on his chest. For a moment all he could do was freeze.

But when was he going to get another chance like this? He hugged her back. She was still feverishly warm in his arms.

It wasn’t too different from how he’d imagined it. And yet still, it was so much better. Sam rested his cheek on her head, which was at a convenient height for just such a purpose. Her hair was still a little damp.

“Thank you. For real,” she murmured. He felt the vibration of her voice in his chest.

“Anytime,” he said back.

“Especially since you’re going to be late for band practice at this rate,” she said. “Don’t you meet at eight on Tuesdays?”

Sam released her, reeling backwards, clutching his head. “Oh, shit!”

Chapter Text

Abigail and Sebastian loitered outside Sam’s house. His mom and brother were out—otherwise Jodi would have let them in—and Sam was very late for band practice.

“I’m going to text him again,” Abigail said.

“You already did,” Sebastian said flatly, through a cloud of cigarette smoke.

Abigail rolled her eyes. “Fine, then you text him, genius.”

Sebastian pulled his phone out of his pocket languidly, and then frowned when he looked at the screen.

“What is it?” Abigail asked.

“It’s Maru,” Sebastian muttered, and unlocked his phone, his cigarette hanging from his fingers. “Uhh…she says Sam’s phone is bricked, and she’s fixing it, so that’s why no texts, I guess…” Sebastian scrolled down, reading through narrowed eyes. “He’s late because…he was looking for Samira’s fishing pole? Because…” Sebastian scoffed. “Fucking hell, Maru, way to bury the lede.”

“What?” Abigail demanded.

“Okay, so Samira fell into the river, and I guess Sam saved her and then went back to find her fishing pole, and got kind of caught up in that. Maru thinks he’s on his way.” Sebastian locked his phone. “Why does she text like that?”

“He rescued her from the river?” Abigail said. “Like a…like a fucking gothic hero?”

Sebastian snorted, and then straight laughed. “Yeah, I’d watch that vampire movie.”

“Oh my Yoba, they’d be like Hotel Transylvania!” Abigail said excitedly.

Sebastian looked puzzled. “What is…what is that?”

“You need to watch more cartoons.”

“I really don’t think I do.”

“Guys!” the voice of Sam interrupted, and there he was, jogging down the pavement toward them. Looking like a drowned rat. Socks sticking out of his pocket.

“There you are!” Abigail waved. “Look who it is! Big hero!”

“I’m glad you finally decided to grace us with your presence,” Sebastian said, stomping out his cigarette and then picking up the butt, because he was no litterbug.

“What are you talking about?” Sam arrived looking even worse up-close. His legs were covered in mud.

“Rescuing Samira, of course.” Abigail grinned. “Look at you, risking life and limb.”

“C’mon, shut up, it’s not a big deal,” Sam said sheepishly.

“Saving people’s lives?” Sebastian shrugged. “Sure, that’s just Tuesday. So normal.”

“So normal!” Abigail repeated in mock sincerity.

Sam groaned. “How do people know about this already?”

“Man on the inside,” Sebastian said, shrugging.

“And that man is his sister,” Abigail added.

“Half-sister,” Sebastian said icily. “Are we still practicing or what?”

It took them some time to set up and get settled, and Sam seemed scattered, but in a few minutes they were in their places and ready to play.

“Okay, as far as figuring out our sound goes,” Sam began, “I feel like we made some good progress last time. Did you guys have other songs you wanted to try out, make some tweaks?”

“Yeah, I have a song,” Abigail said, adjusting one of the cymbals a little.

“What is it?” Sebastian said.

Abigail grinned. “Just follow my lead.”

“No wait—” Sam tried to say, but Abigail was already laying down a drum solo that made him suddenly glad they’d asked her to join the band. She was good.

Her solo came to a denouement, and Abigail opened her mouth to sing, “I need a hero!”

“What the fuck—” Sam started, but Abigail cut him off again.

“I’m holding out for a hero ‘til the end of the night!”

Sebastian laughed and picked up the piano part.

“Guys, please,” Sam protested.

“He’s gotta be strong and he’s gotta be fast and he’s gotta be fresh from the fight…” Now they were both singing, and Sebastian never sang.

Sam groaned and buried his face in his hands. “Shut the fuck uuuuuppppppppp.”

They got through the chorus before Abigail stopped, dissolving into laughter, and Sebastian snickered along with her. Sam sighed. “You done?”

“Yeah I’m done,” Abigail giggled. “I just think it’s badass! Like you always hope you’ll help someone in a situation like that, but you actually did!”

“Man, I didn’t even realize I was doing it until I was doing it,” Sam said, shaking his head.

“That’s arguably more heroic,” Sebastian said. “Hey, band question.”

“Shoot,” Sam said, relieved.

“Are we going to be a cover band forever or are you going to write us some songs?” he asked.

Abigail perked up. “You’re our songwriter?”

“I mean, kind of.” Sam rubbed the back of his head. “I was going to wait until we’d found our sound.”

“Sam, that’s backwards,” Abigail scoffed. “We’re making art here. You’re making art. So like, give us a starting point.”

Sam chewed on this idea for a moment, and then nodded. “Yeah. Okay.”

*

Samira stood in front of the community center, feeling exposed.

She was wearing basketball shorts. They were the only shorts she had, holdovers from when people made her take classes that involved running, and they felt uncomfortably butch, even though she couldn’t fault them for comfort in the hot weather. She was also wearing a tank top that wasn’t even black—it was olive green. She wore it under things, usually. It was truly shocking how light her shoulders were compared to her hands. Farmer tan.

The outfit was so depressing, she hadn’t even bothered to do her hair, much less her makeup. At least you’re not dying of heatstroke, she repeated to herself, and maybe if she said it six or seven more times she would believe it.

But that wasn’t why she was here.

You were not allowed to opt out of community, and this town desperately needed a community center. And for some reason, nobody wanted to fix this place. No one was even considering it as a possibility, and that rubbed her the wrong way. If anyone was going to be willfully misunderstood in this town, it was going to be her.

As soon as she figured out how the fuck she was supposed to dress in the summer.

Practically speaking, she didn’t know if there was anything she could do to fix this place up. She was learning how to do basic repairs and a little carpentry. Maybe she could get Robin involved or something. She just…had to do something.

So with a deep breath, she opened the door.

The mayor had shown her around here already once, but she was too busy trying to discern the differences between his passive aggression, his microaggressions, and what he was actually trying to say to pay too much attention. She did remember him claiming that the little hut in the corner had been built by Vincent and Jas, and while those two were smart cookies, the hut looked really intricate to be a children’s fort. Maybe he was right.

A slight movement caught the corner of her eye. She looked; there was nothing there. Probably like Lewis said, rats.

The old building looked like it was being taken back by nature. Samira couldn’t help but think of the way she was constantly fighting back the weeds on her farm. Parts of the floor were torn up or rotted away. There was an empty fish tank and a derelict fireplace and—

Another movement, and this time Samira caught a glimpse of something moving in the little door of the hut.

Samira squinted into the darkness. What…

Something peeked its tiny little face out from the darkness. Not that it had much more than a face to peek out with.

Samira opened her mouth, and all that came out was, “What the fu—”

Chapter Text

Samira was on a barstool as soon as the Stardrop Saloon opened at noon.

“Well hey, Samira…” Gus said, wandering over to her and slowing once he saw her face. “You look like you could use a beverage.”

“Yeah, can you give me a glass of whatever people use when they drink to forget?” Samira rubbed her face. “Shit.”

“It is noon,” Gus said, leaning in companionably. “Are you all right?”

“I might be losing my mind.” Samira stared at the bar, trying to convince herself it was real. “At least I’m not dying of heatstroke, right? I’m just delusional.”

“Are you sure you want to be drinking, then?” Gus asked carefully. “Should we call someone?”

Samira looked up to Gus’ big round face, heavy with worry, and realized she sounded unhinged. She also felt unhinged, but she didn’t feel like explaining that to Harvey today.

Samira sighed. “Maybe I just need some water?”

“Coming up,” Gus said, and wandered off to get it for her.

This was why she didn’t want to get involved in community, Samira thought, hanging her head in her hands. Now she couldn’t even go insane in peace.

The glass appeared on the bartop in front of her, looking temptingly cold. “So why do you think you’re delusional?”

Samira let her hands close into fists and stared at them. She was real and this was real. Whatever she’d seen in the community center couldn’t be. She took a swig of water—also real—and said to Gus, “Do you believe in junimos?”

Gus looked concerned, and he was very good at looking concerned. “You’ve seen junimos?”

“No,” Samira said, setting her glass down very deliberately. “Junimos aren’t real. I can’t have seen junimos, can I?”

“Ah, I see.” Gus leaned on the bar, about eye-level with Samira, considering carefully. “Where didn’t you see them?”

“Up at the community center,” Samira mumbled.

“They are supposed to like abandoned buildings,” Gus said thoughtfully.

Samira shot him a despairing look.

“Well, I like to keep an open mind.” Gus shrugged. “You never know. The world is pretty big.”

“So maybe I’m not crazy, but fairies are real?” Samira scoffed. “Which one is more likely?”

“I can’t speak to that,” Gus said diplomatically. “My grandmother was a bruja, though. I don’t think I ever really stopped believing.”

Samira raised an eyebrow. “A what?”

Gus looked suddenly like he’d been caught. “A practitioner of folk magic and spirituality.”

She frowned at the bartop. “That was Spanish.”

“Might be, might be,” Gus agreed.

“I thought you were Italian,” Samira accused.

Gus stood up and took a deep breath, leaving his hands resting on his belly. “Interesting assertion. Some might say, it’s smart to let people assume what they will. Especially, just as an example, in culinary school.”

“Oh.” Samira couldn’t help but feel resentment at this. She knew plenty of people who passed as white, plenty of Gotoro people even. It was a privilege she never had. “Must be nice.”

“It wasn’t. Not eventually.” Gus shook his head. “Eventually you give some things up.”

Samira glared at him. “Like what?”

Gus thought about this for a while before answering. “I miss…I miss my accent.”

Something about his wistfulness deflated Samira’s resentment. She looked at Gus with new eyes.

“Things are better now than when I was your age, in a lot of ways,” Gus assured her. “I’ve never been very brave. But I don’t think I’d need to hide so much now, and that’s heartening.”

Samira had to press her palms into the bar to keep herself from squirming uncomfortably. She wished for her leather jacket.

“Enough about me,” Gus said, waving the conversation away. “Your junimo problem.”

“What’s the problem?” Samira grumbled. “I’m just having a small psychotic break.”

“You don’t seem crazy to me.” Gus rubbed his considerable chin. “You just need to talk to the right person.”

“Who’s that?” Samira scoffed.

“Have you met the wizard?” he asked.

She couldn’t help but laugh. “What?”

“The wizard, he lives in a tower in the woods.” Gus’ tone had zero irony. “He comes down to the town for festivals sometimes.”

“I have not met ‘the wizard,’ no,” Samira sneered. “But thank you, you are making me feel more sane.”

Gus smiled broadly. “Just a suggestion. You want something to eat before you go? The special this week is spicy eel.”

“That actually sounds fucking great, yeah,” Samira said, taking a long pull of water. “Let’s do that.”

“Coming right up,” Gus said, jotting it down on an order pad produced from his pocket.

The door opened behind Samira, and Gus looked up. “Oh, hey, you here for your paycheck?”

“Yes sir!” Samira did not have to look up to know that the mellifluous voice belonged to Emily, who strode up to the bar next to Samira. “Thanks for having it ready early, that merchant is out in the woods and sometimes she has silk!” Emily wiggled her fingers excitedly. “Can you imagine! Silk! The things I could make.”

Samira could handle about four sentences of Emily’s enthusiasm politely, because after that she started thinking that someone in their late twenties should try not to be so much of a blatant tumblr kid, but this was also the first time she’d heard Emily mention anything besides the magic of being alive, which felt like her version of small talk. Discreetly, Samira scoped out Emily’s outfit from the corner of her eye.

“Well hi, Samira!” Emily beamed at her. Shit. “I hardly recognized you! Trying out a new style?”

“Uh, forced to adopt a new style by the weather.” Now that Samira could actually look, she observed Emily’s outfit properly, a crocheted crop top made of bright yellow yarn and a fluffy pink skirt. They looked weird, but not handmade… “You make clothes?”

“All my clothes!” Emily did a little curtsey that showed off the flounces of her skirt. “I love fashion. Clothing is art!”

The enthusiasm was grating, but Samira was surprised to find herself in agreement. “I never would have guessed, that skirt looks immaculate.”

“Thank you!” Emily smiled, and then her smile immediately morphed into concern. “Now I’ve never seen you out of your goth finery, are you all right?”

Fucking hell, Emily was maybe the last person she wanted to have this discussion with. “Uh. I got heatstroke. Medically I have to…stop.”

Emily gave her a sympathetic nod, and then paused. “Oh, you looked so sad just then. The goth look really is an expression of your inner self, isn’t it?”

Holy shit. “Yes. Oh my Yoba.” She fully turned in her chair to face Emily. “People think it’s a fucking affectation.”

“That is so frustrating,” Emily said, and Samira felt like she really understood.

“It is.” Samira tried to bury her hand in her hair, which was so much less satisfying when it wasn’t in its usual style. “Ugh. I just don’t feel like myself at all, and it sucks.”

“Well, maybe I can help?” Emily chewed on her thumbnail and circled Samira on her stool. “Hm. Breathable fabrics, sheer fabrics, those would be our friends here. And accessories, of course. I know you’re good with accessories.”

“That’s really…that’s really nice of you,” Samira said, feeling suddenly guilty for all her uncharitable thoughts toward Emily. “You’re very into this. It’s not your usual style.”

“My clothes are just an expression of what’s in my soul and guts,” Emily explained, taking a pencil from behind her ear and a sketchbook out of—oh shit, pockets, her skirt had pockets—and sketching furiously. “It makes me happy to see when people use their clothes like that. What do you think of this?”

Emily had drawn a torso, wearing the same kind of scoop-neck crop top Samira currently had on, but with a sexy little chest harness overtop. The torso also had high-waisted shorts with fishnets underneath.

“Yoba fucking damn, Emily, that’s…that’s perfect.” Samira felt a little breathless. It’d be cool and versatile and absolutely make people understand on sight that she was not to be fucked with.

“Now I don’t have a harness like this, but I could help modify one if you found a near fit,” Emily said, tapping the notepad with her pencil before putting it back behind her ear. “You could do all sorts of variations on this, too, and luckily this cut of shorts is in vogue, so they’re pretty easy to pick up.” Emily tore the page out and handed it to Samira. “I have a million ideas for you, though, this is just one. Hit me up if you ever want more!”

Samira held the page in her hand like someone had just handed her a check. Maybe someone had. “Can I…Emily, do you do fashion consulting?”

“Oh, maybe in my dreams,” Emily laughed. “You’re not serious.”

“I am dead serious, I’m not gonna last the summer looking like this.” Samira gestured to herself. “I will literally hire you so I can dress normal for the summer. Normal for me.”

Emily’s eyes sparkled. “Wow. The world is literally full of magic. Want to start tomorrow?”

Samira swallowed her cringe response to that statement so she could say, “Yes, perfect.”

“Wonderful!” Emily clasped her hands together. “Stop by anytime before 2pm, okay? Bring anything you have in your closet that’s made of cotton or linen. Rayon’s okay too—just anything sheer or light. I’m over by Sam’s house, okay?”

“Sounds good,” Samira agreed. It actually did sound fun, and thank Yoba, she’d look right again. “See you tomorrow.”

Emily beamed, and then almost turned to leave.

“Hang on, Emily,” Gus called, holding out an envelope.

Emily laughed. “I got so swept up that I almost forgot. Thanks Gus!”

Gus waved as she left, letting his hands fall to rest on his belly again once she was gone. “Food will be out in a few minutes.”

“Thanks Gus,” Samira said, feeling more relaxed than she had all day, and then snorting a little. “The world is literally full of magic.”

“Hay cosas que no sabes,” Gus said, and Samira didn’t speak Spanish but she could tell a scolding tone when she heard one.

“What does that mean?” Samira demanded.

“It means you shouldn’t make fun of her, she’s helping you,” Gus said, and it was the first time she’d ever seen him look anything like stern. “Emily is a good person.”

Samira felt a pang of guilt. “I know, I just…it’s pretty immature.”

“Someday, you’ll be old like me,” Gus said. “And when that day comes, you’ll realize that real maturity is being aware of how much you don’t know, rather than how much you do.”

Samira didn’t like this. She felt like a child, like an admonished child.

Maybe she deserved that. She wasn’t about to apologize, though. “Spoken like a man who told me to go see a wizard.”

“You should,” Gus said, and pulled out his order pad. “You want anything other than water to drink?”

“Coffee?” Samira said, and Gus nodded, took it down, and disappeared back into the kitchen.

Chapter Text

“It all goes back to resources,” Sam told Penny, gesturing in the air with the little garden trowel. “Like it’s not like there are major differences between Ferngill and Gotoro. Culturally, I guess, but we have the same religion. Majority religion anyway. You get me?”

Penny pulled another weed with careful deliberation, placing it in the trash bag they’d brought for this purpose. “Isn’t it a little oversimplified to say this war is about oil, though?”

“Yeah it totally is, because there’s a bunch of politics and history and terrorism.” Sam shoved the trowel into the dirt with force and dug out another weed. “But oil’s where it started.”

Sam was happy to help Penny with some yard work when she’d asked, because he really needed someone to talk to about the book he’d just finished listening to. He’d started another one, a more detailed account of the Ferngill-Gotoro Wars, and every new bullet point made him a little more conflicted.

“You seem upset about that,” Penny said.

“Yeah, of course I am.” Sam shook the excess dirt off the weed he’d dug up, trying to fill back the hole he’d taken it from. “You spend your whole life knowing your dad is the good guy, and then it turns out we’re fighting for oil and like, revenge.”

“If you believe the book you read,” Penny suggested gently.

“I think I do, I mean…they had a lot of evidence and stuff, and they weren’t trying to argue a point, just give facts.” Sam shrugged. He hadn’t thought about this kind of stuff since school, and he wasn’t thinking all that hard about it then. “Shit, do I need to read a book that’s like, arguing that the war is a good thing?”

“Maybe not a whole book, but it couldn’t hurt,” Penny said. “Then you can see who you agree with.”

“Are you trying to argue me into agreeing with what my dad does?” Sam accused.

“I’m curious why you’re resistant to the idea.”

Sam dug the trowel idly in the dirt. “I don’t know. It’s like…the more I learn about war, the more it seems just…pointless.”

“Pointless?”

“Yeah, like, people fighting for stupid reasons, and so many people die, and nobody really wins. War fucking sucks.”

“That’s hard to argue with,” Penny said softly, carefully pulling a weed out of its place. “There. I think we’re finished.”

Sam felt like shit still, though. “Need anything else done?”

“I’m sure I do, there’s always something,” she sighed. “But it’s all right, you’ve done plenty. Are you okay?”

Sam slowly flopped onto his back, into the dirt beyond the flowerbed. The sky beyond the edge of Penny’s trailer was blue and populated with the occasional picturesque fluffy cloud. “I don’t know. Is it…how bad is it to be kind of anti-war when your dad’s a soldier?”

“It’s not bad,” Penny said, leaning back on her hands beside him to watch clouds with him. “It’s complicated, though. Have you talked about this with Samira at all?”

His guts squirmed at the very suggestion. “I can’t do that. Seriously?”

“She might have an interesting perspective,” Penny said.

He hated that idea. What if he said something stupid and she decided she hated him forever?

The door to the trailer opened, and Pam stepped out, holding a beer bottle. Hastily Sam sat up, brushing the dirt off his back, as much as he could. “Hey Pam.”

“Heya, kid,” Pam said heartilty. “Lookin’ good out here! Nice work.”

Penny beamed. “It was easier with a little help.”

“You have time to get to the kitchen now.” Pam took a pull off her beer. “It’s a mess in there.”

Penny’s face fell. She kept her expression mostly under control, but Sam could tell; she was crestfallen.

Sam had to keep himself from groaning. He had the luxury of goofing off most of the time, but none of his friends seemed to have any goofing off time at all, and that was hardly fair. Penny seemed burdened to follow every obligation people asked of her—

Aha.

“No can do, Pam,” Sam said, shrugging. “Penny promised me we could go for a walk in the woods.”

Penny glanced at him with the briefest moment of confusion, which settled into recognition. “Um. Right. We did say that.”

Pam waved her beer carelessly. “Fine, guess the kitchen can wait.”

“Let’s put these tools away,” Penny said, standing up and taking the trowel from Sam. “You know, Mom, the kitchen would be a lot easier if you could…maybe unload the dishwasher?”

“I don’t know where anything goes,” Pam said, and returned inside.

Penny waited until the door was all the way shut before she heaved a sigh. There was a little basket by the door; she put the tools carefully inside. “Thanks. That’s really nice.”

“Bought you some time,” Sam offered. “We don’t need to hang out, either, you can just have a free afternoon.”

“Actually, a walk in the woods with a friend sounds perfect.” She stood up and held out her hand to help him up too. “Plus this conversation is interesting.”

Sam grinned and took her hand, using it for balance rather than leverage, because Penny was stronger mentally and emotionally than physically. “I’m really glad you still like hanging out with me.”

“Why wouldn’t I?” Penny waited for him to stand and brush himself off before turning away from the trailer. “You were my first real friend, you know.”

“It’s not like anyone in this town was a huge bully or anything,” Sam protested.

“No, but that’s not the same as being friendly. I have Maru too now, now that we’re grown, but you mean a lot to me. I don’t think that’ll ever change.”

Sam’s chest felt warm and bright. “Shit, dude. You were my first friend here too.”

Penny smiled at him and used a move of his, nudging him playfully with an elbow, which made him laugh. It had been a long time since they dated—fucking six years, shit—but Sam remembered suddenly how easy it had been in the first few days, before the issue of kissing had come up. Penny was gay, unbeknownst to everyone including Penny, and awkward about it, and it had given Sam the strange sensation of kissing a sibling, which was gross, so it hadn’t lasted long. The friendship, though, they’d preserved at all costs. It was too valuable to lose.

“Okay, besides all this history you’re learning, what’s new?” Penny asked.

It was funny, they texted all the time and didn’t say much. “Uhh…the band wants me to start writing us songs.”

“Which was always the plan,” Penny filled in.

“Yeah, I just…I feel like now that it’s not just me messing around, I can’t remember how to do it.”

“What did you used to write about?”

“Whatever I was thinking about.”

Penny considered this as they walked across the courtyard in town toward Sam’s house. “I see the problem.”

Sam shook his head. “Can you give me a hint?”

“I think there are two problems, maybe?” Penny suggested. “For one thing, these are difficult things that you’re thinking about.”

“Oh, Yoba, I haven’t even considered writing about all this Gotoro stuff.” Sam rubbed the back of his head, feeling that familiar bubbling in his stomach. Which was weird, because Samira was not in sight. “Shit. I can’t…shit.”

“You see?”

“Yeah…” If this was the only thing in his head, and it wasn’t something he could really put words to yet, of course he couldn’t write anything. “What’s the other thing?”

“Well…before songwriting was messing around, like you said, but this is kind of real now, isn’t it?” They passed by Emily and Haley’s house. Haley was coming out the door, and watched them pass with disinterest before going the opposite direction. “You really have a band. You’re developing your sound and you’re starting to think about gigs.”

That was all true… “So…because it’s serious…”

“Maybe you’re a little scared to mess up?” Penny’s tone was gentle—she was doing a teacher thing, asking those leading questions. “There’s more pressure now.”

Sam took a deep breath as they passed his house, lacing his fingers behind his head to brace himself a little. “Maybe. That’s probably part of it.”

“Sounds like the subject matter is worse.”

“Yeah. It kind of makes me sick to my stomach.”

“Does it really?” Penny caught his eye, trying to read him. “How come?”

Sam huffed. “Shit, if I knew that, it’d solve multiple problems.”

“Oh.” Penny was backing off, like she did sometimes when she sensed conflict. Sam regretted his tone—this was frustrating, but he had to be so gentle with Penny.

“It’s not a big deal,” he said, apologetically. “I’ll figure it out.”

“Okay,” Penny said, sounding a little less afraid now.

Penny was better at dealing with abstract problems than emotional ones. Maybe he should have stuck to politics. She just took everything so personally.

“Anyway, I’m a pacifist now,” he said, which was kind of a joke even though it was less of a joke than it might have been before. “That’s what I’m sticking to.”

“So what if there was a Nazi, and that Nazi was threatening violence on a friend of yours?” Penny said lightly.

“Aw, fuck,” Sam said, and Penny laughed.

*

It had been a pretty strange day, Sam thought, retiring to his room after dinner. He’d thought a lot about his own thoughts today, which was circular and maybe weird, but sometimes you had to get circular and weird, right?

He still hadn’t solved the puzzle of how to write a song again, or what the sickening bubbling in his gut was about, or whether his dad was maybe evil. Talking about it helped, though. Penny was a good person and a good friend. She helped him slow the spinning, anyway.

He draped himself over his desk chair, feeling the endless wheel of circular weirdness starting to pick up speed again. There really weren’t any answers to these questions, were there? Not a one. This was what being an adult must be, never really knowing anything for sure while you muddled through, hoping not to fuck anything up too badly. Family was complicated, crushes were complicated, politics were…oh Yoba, so complicated.

What you love isn’t always good for you.

Hm. Sam’s brow wrinkled as he turned the phrase over in his head. Maybe the rhythm of that wasn’t quite…What you love ain’t always good for you—yes, there you go, that was something. He snatched a battered notepad off his desk and wrote it down. How about the tune? He could almost hear it, almost…it needed a good strong keyboard presence, and a rhythm that was driving, and it had to shred…

The circular weirdness began to unspool, and stop spinning.

Chapter Text

“Emily, I don’t know how to repay you.” Samira was holding a milk crate full of clothing, some of which she’d brought, and some of which Emily had bestowed upon her. “Like it doesn’t seem fair to just charge me for clothes.”

Emily waved a hand. “Don’t be silly. This has been valuable research. And a lot of fun.” She had a twinkle in her eye. “I’m writing a paper on creativity in clothing choice as therapy, you know. A lot of self-actualization stuff is focused on how you present yourself, and the easiest way to do that is just clothing.”

“Like, clothing therapy?” Samira tried with all her strength not to be skeptical.

“Exactly! Clothing therapy!” Emily beamed. “So it’s all valuable information. In fact, if you wanted to report back over the next few days how it’s all going, I’d be interested to hear.”

Samira privately decided to come back in a week with this same crate, full of whatever was good to harvest by then. “Sounds good, yeah.”

“All right now, you go out there and be yourself.” Emily clasped her hands together. “It’s going to be so nice.”

Samira looked down at the crate of clothes, and then considered her current outfit—the same basketball shorts as yesterday and a white tank top which was a little dingy at this point in its lifetime.

“Do you mind if I change before I leave?”

*

This new outfit felt incredible. Emily had called this garment a duster—a long jacket-shaped thing made of translucent black fabric, laced tight over a simple sleeveless crop top and a pair of high-waisted shorts. Her hair wasn’t done properly, but pulling it back felt nice and cool, and between her ever-present Yoba necklace and the few others she’d brought at Emily’s request, she was feeling so much more herself. All while not dying of heatstroke.

She admired the flow of the sleeves and the long back of the duster in the breeze, and even found herself grateful for the sunshine. It was comfortable, good to be back to her old self. And this outfit wasn’t even particularly intimidating, just right. Today couldn’t get any better—

Shit, but it could get worse. Head bobbing to his music in his headphones, coasting along the brick of the courtyard on his skateboard, was Sam.

Samira hadn’t yet had time to be embarrassed by the way she’d thanked him so effusively two days ago. She’d just been so overwhelmed by the fact that she could have been dead, and was not because of him, that she couldn’t help it and had hugged him. And to her surprise, it had been nice. He’d rested his head on hers and made her feel like an egg nestled in a nest.

But that was two days ago, and now was now, and while she wasn’t allowed to opt out of community, she couldn’t help but note the creeping mildew of embarrassment in her gut at the thought of seeing him again. After all her talk about not touching, not needing anyone, trying to keep people at a distance, she’d hugged him. Initiated. She wasn’t sure how he was going to react now. She wasn’t sure how she should react.

So she stopped, and watched.

Sam did not notice her. He did a little ollie, getting just a bit of air, and landed the trick neatly, looking entirely nonplussed about it. He must do that a lot. He did another, picking up speed to flip the board underneath him—Samira didn’t know what that was called, but it looked impressive. With his speed fully built, he jumped up to grind off of one of the lamp post bases—

And completely biffed it, landing in a heap in the grass beyond.

“Sam!” Samira put down her crate of clothes and ran forward. He was all in a knot like a confused spider, just beyond the base of the lamp post. “Are you okay?”

“Ugh.” He untangled himself and sat up in the grass, gangly legs spread out like a child. He pulled out his earbuds and looked up. “Oh. Fuck. Did you see that?”

“Yeah?” The apprehension and awkwardness was back. He seemed okay, so Samira hung back. “You good?”

“Oh, yeah, I’m good.” He slipped his earbuds into his pocket with his phone. Oh, he was blushing. “Fuck. I can usually land that.”

Ah now this was interesting; insults didn’t make a dent in this man’s ego, but apparently this did. Samira’s mouth twisted into a smile, despite her best efforts. “What happened, you put your feet on backwards?”

“Do you gotta kick a man while he’s down?” Sam got to his feet and flipped his board into his hand with his foot, which was genuinely cool, before turning to face her. And then he definitely checked her out.

“Do you like what you see?” Samira said dryly.

He blushed again. Samira could get used to this, actually. “Sorry, I—you’re goth again.”

Now it was Samira’s turn to feel embarrassed, although she was grateful her skin didn’t really show a blush. “You saw me yesterday?”

“Just in passing.” Sam shrugged awkwardly. “You looked upset though, or I would’ve said hi. You seem happier today.”

She lifted her arms. “Well I do look amazing.”

Sam grinned that cock-eyed grin. And—oop, a little bit of blood slid down the side of his face.

“Are you bleeding?”

The grin disappeared. He patted his head and found the blood with his hand, and upon seeing it went white as paper. “Oh shit.”

“Hey it doesn’t look bad—woah,” Samira put up her hands, because Sam started to sway. “Are you okay?”

“Blood makes me woozy,” he mumbled.

“Fucking hell,” Samira sighed. “Here, kneel down.”

He didn’t so much kneel as buckle a little, but once he was on his knees, Samira pulled off her backpack and took out the little bits of first aid she kept in one pocket, because her dad had demanded to know that she was safe. Even kneeling, his head was almost at her chin. “Fuck, how tall are you?”

“Like, six four?” he muttered.

“That’s honestly stupid.” Carefully, she moved his hair aside a little, mopped up the blood on his face, and found the cut. It was a little thing on his temple and not very deep, but head wounds always bled a lot. “Who’s six foot four? Basketball players?”

“They’re mostly taller than me,” Sam said. He seemed to be a little more lucid now. “Which is pretty stupid.”

“You have almost a foot on me,” Samira murmured. It took a second to stop the cut oozing. She had to brace his head on the other side with a couple of fingers—just lightly touching, because this was already awkward, and it didn’t take too much pressure to stop the cut bleeding. Samira expected his hair to be kind of gross with product, but it was soft, actually, and smelled vaguely nice. She heard his breathing change a little and willed him not to pass out. Once the cut slowed, she removed her hands from his head and split open a little alcohol towelette. “This is going to sting.”

Sam winced a little, but to his credit he did not whine about it. “Is it bad?”

“Nah, it’ll be fine. Hold this?” She held out the various bloody pieces of trash.

Sam swallowed and closed his eyes, brow furrowed in concentration.

“You’re going to need to stop frowning, dude,” she said, opening a butterfly bandage up. She probably would only need one.

“You just gave me a handful of my own blood!” he protested.

“And you’re being so brave about it.” Samira rolled her eyes. “I’ll get rid of it for you in a sec.”

Sam made an effort to unwrinkle his brow, and Samira applied the little bandage as tightly as she could. The seam of the cut was a thin line on Sam’s forehead underneath the bandage, which meant it probably wouldn’t bleed anymore, but just in case, she put another little bandage over top. “There.” She took the various pieces of trash out of Sam’s hand, noticing a little too hard how her fingers brushed against his palm. “You’re fixed.”

Sam tested the spot gingerly and then looked at his hand. “Wow. Thanks.”

“I like you at this height,” Samira commented. “I can look you in the eye for once.”

His cock-eyed grin reappeared. “We should meet like this more often.”

“What, with you on your knees?” Samira snorted.

She’d meant it to be a joke, but Sam gave her a look she didn’t quite understand, his eyes lighting up like a weirdo, before he laughed and stood up again. “Now we’re even, right?”

“Uh, no? You literally saved my life. I just did some quick first aid.”

“Aw, man, sorry,” he said sheepishly.

“Yeah, try harder to die next time,” she said, and shit, that was supposed to be a joke too, but it was so mean. It was a joke designed to push people away. Was that even what she wanted? Even if it was just Sam?

But Sam just laughed. “Pass. For real, though, thank you for fixing me up.”

“It’s—it’s no big deal.” She had to get out of here. She wasn’t sure why, but that didn’t change the facts. “I uh—I have to…” She gestured toward the crate, where she’d left it. “I have stuff to do. I have to go.”

“Sure, see you later.” He dropped his skateboard to the stone and hopped on, rolling away. “Thanks! Bye!”

Samira watched him go with some gratitude, but the discomfort did not go away. In fact, it was almost louder now, as he left her alone with her own thoughts and a handful of bloody trash, which was pretty gothic. It was her heart racing and face burning and butterflies in her stomach.

Well, shit.

Chapter Text

Sam couldn’t quite get it out of his head—how Samira’s fingers had brushed against his temple, his palm, the other side of his head—fuck, it was so little, such a small gesture to fix up a cut, but every time his hair brushed against his bandage, it hit him again. Samira was secretly gentle. Blunt and cruel and businesslike and soft and kind and gentle, and she smelled like fresh cut grass. He’d felt afterwards like his heart was trying to thump out of his chest. And she’d just brushed it off with a joke about how she still owed him.

…Being eye-level with her rack had been pretty sweet too. But even that! Even that—it was a view he wouldn’t forget in a hurry, but he had been so woozy and distracted, so it was almost not as good as Samira applying a fucking bandaid, which was…crazy. She made him feel absolutely crazy.

He’d gone home and written a half a song about it, an incomprehensible stereotype of a song. Maybe it’d work for something later, but at the very least it knocked him out of a fugue state. The incident took up residence in the back of his mind, hanging like a colony of bats, ready to wake up but quiet for now.

On Friday, the colony burst to life and filled his head with goth static. Samira walked into the Stardrop.

*

Samira was exhausted as she entered the building. It had been a long and stupid day, full of stupid things. Apparently magic was real. Great.

“Hey Samira!” Emily greeted her as she came up to the bar. “What can I—oh my goodness, is that a sword?”

Samira had straight up forgotten about the sword on her hip, which she had found in the mines after deciding to go back down there with her brand new perspective. She was grateful today for the stability afforded to her by her chest harness, an unexpected perk of an outfit that also just fucking slapped in general.

“Uh—yeah. Yeah, it fucks, right?” Samira couldn’t help but laugh. “Sorry, I—I can put it in my backpack.”

“Oh, don’t bother,” Emily assured her. “It really brings the outfit together.”

“Gus isn’t going to be upset about me walking in here with a weapon?” Samira took a seat at a barstool.

Emily considered this. “You know, that’s funny. I don’t think a sword registers as a weapon to most people. A knife or a gun, sure.” She shrugged. “Up to you. Can I get you anything to eat?”

“I’m starving, what’s the special?”

“We’re doing fish tacos today, yummy,” Emily said, doing a little shimmy to emphasize just how yummy they were.

Samira suppressed the urge to laugh at a grown woman saying “yummy.” Fish tacos, eh Gus? “Sounds great, yeah.”

“Done and done.” Emily winked. “Your friends are here, by the way.”

Samira looked to the right automatically, and indeed, she could see Abigail through the doorway. Abigail caught her glance and waved her over.

“I’ll serve you in there!” Emily said. “Have fun!”

Shit, well. If Abigail was here, then Sam was here. Sebastian, also, but Sam was the real problem. And the fucking butterflies were back in her stomach.

She didn’t need this today.

Then again, there was no way she could see to refuse. And…it wasn’t like she didn’t want to see Sam. And the other two. Part of her…part of her really really wanted to. So…

Samira drew herself up straight and marched into the side room.

The usual suspects were in their usual poses, chatting away when Samira arrived. Abigail immediately interrupted whatever Sebastian was saying to exclaim, “That outfit totally fucks!”

“Right?” Samira flopped down next to Abigail, throwing just enough of a glance at the boys to confirm that both their jaws had dropped open. “What a day. How are you?”

“Incredibly bored,” Abigail fluted. “What have you been up to, farmer?”

“Oh this and that.” She could feel one of the boys’ eyes on her, but she couldn’t for the life of her tell which and she wasn’t about to glance again and find out. She needed a distraction. A smoke screen. “Did you know there’s a fucking wizard in the woods?”

“There’s a what?” Sam said, at the same time Sebastian said, “You’re fucking with us.”

“Do you guys not listen to me at all?” Abigail demanded. “I’ve told you about the tower. I hang out there all the time!”

“I thought you were being whimsical!” Sebastian threw up his hands exaggeratedly. “How the fuck are we supposed to know?”

“Did you actually see the wizard?” Abigail asked her excitedly.

Oh, Abigail had been stalking the wizard. Samira would have to address that later. “Dude, I talked to him.”

“What!” she squealed. “Tell me everything.”

“Why are you going around talking to strange men?” Sebastian said witheringly.

“I talk to you,” Samira shot back, and Sam burst out laughing, which Samira was…a regular amount of pleased with.

“That’s amazing, and I need to hear more, so I’m getting a round of drinks,” Abigail said, standing. “What do we all want? Just beer?”

“You can’t buy beer, everyone knows you’re nineteen,” Sebastian complained.

“Oh, then you should come with me,” Abigail said sweetly.

“Just beer works for me,” Samira volunteered.

“Fucking hell,” Sebastian scoffed, and followed Abigail to the bar.

Samira watched them bicker, a little fascinated by the sudden thought that crossed her mind. Abigail and Sebastian: a couple. Surely not, right? Like, it would be interesting…

“So a wizard?”

Samira looked up to find Sam much closer than she expected. Looming. Which wasn’t his fault, at six foot fucking four. She brushed it off, ignoring the butterflies. “Weird, right?”

“What do you even talk about with a wizard?” he asked, sliding into the other couch. That was much more palatable, except for the fact that she could see his face now. Crushes were the fucking pits.

“Oh you know.” She waved a hand. “Junimos. Magic. Wizard shit."

"Are you being serious?" Sam leaned in a little, like he was expecting a secret.

No, she was being glib, because there was absolutely no way she could tell anyone that after she left the tower, she'd gone to the community center and heard the chirpy little voices of literal fairies. How do you even begin to describe something like that? She might actually be crazy.

She kept her composure and shrugged. "It's what we talked about. He looks like he stepped out of a fantasy book. Shit's wild."

Sam chuckled in disbelief. "Dude."

"I know," Samira said, and couldn't help but giggle as well. So much for keeping her composure. She cleared her throat. "Uh...how's your head?"

He knocked on his head twice and smiled that crooked smile. “Still intact. Thanks.”

“Good. Um—” Whatever sentence she was going to say flew out of her head. “Good,” she finished lamely.

Fucking hell. She was so pathetic. A little hint of attraction and suddenly she stopped functioning as a human being. He didn’t seem to notice, though. Or maybe he didn’t mind. He just…watched her. And…and he licked his lips and lowered his voice to say, “Can I ask you something?”

“Depends on what it is,” Samira said, trying not to look at his lips. He was…very close to her. “Like I’m not going to prom with you. Not because of you, I just think school dances are stupid.”

He laughed, which had her internally celebrating, and said, “C’mon, it might be fun.”

“I don’t have anything to wear,” she scoffed.

“Neither do I, we already match,” he quipped. “I can get you like, uh…like a dandelion corsage.”

She snorted. It was a pretty stupid bit, but the fact that he’d rolled with it had her feeling all warm inside. And the image of the goth at prom with a dandelion corsage was fucking adorable. “What did you want to ask me?”

He let a slow breath out. Like…bracing himself? He looked down, avoiding her gaze, and began, “Samira, do you—”

“Beer for everyone!” Abigail declared, re-entering with a mug in each hand. Sebastian followed her, one hand holding two mugs and the other hand shoved sullenly in his pocket. By the time Samira looked back to Sam, he was leaning away from her on the couch, lounging casually.

“Thanks,” Samira said, accepting the proffered mug from Abigail.

“Yours isn’t beer, it’s ginger beer,” Sebastian griped, handing off one mug to Sam.

“Joke’s on them, I love ginger beer,” Abigail said in a mock whisper to Samira. “Now tell me about the wizard!”

“Are we playing?” Sebastian said to Sam.

“Yeah dude,” Sam said, shooting to his feet, but managing not to spill his beer.

“Sure, yeah, the wizard,” Samira said to Abigail, trying to get ahold of herself. “Of course.”

For the rest of the evening, to Samira’s disappointment and relief, Sam didn’t try to talk to her again.

Chapter Text

Sam woke up way too early from a weird dream. Samira and he were walking on a beach, and then…the beach had turned into a war zone? And when Sam turned to Samira to apologize, she’d been sobbing?

Weird to think of Samira crying, Sam thought, shaking off the sleep. What circumstance would even do that?

…Why did he still hear crying?

He slid out of bed and opened his door, silently. Yeah, that was crying, and it wasn’t Vincent.

Suddenly Sam felt kind of small and scared. He crept toward the kitchen to hear better, stopping before he turned the corner.

Mom. On the kitchen floor. Crying.

Shit. Was she hurt? Sam cleared his throat and said quietly, “Mom?”

The crying stopped immediately. He heard some hasty sniffling, and then, “Sam? What’s wrong?”

What the fuck did she think was wrong? He turned the corner, wishing he was smaller so it didn’t look like his mother was a child on the floor. He dropped into a crouch beside her, so at least they were at eye-level. “Are you okay?”

She took a long shuddering breath and then gave him a damp smile. “In some ways.”

Sam’s confusion must have been obvious, because she carefully wiped her eyes and lied, “It’s not that important. Nothing to worry about.”

“Mom,” Sam accused. He wasn’t naive and he wasn’t stupid, nor was he about to let her lie about this.

She sighed, her smile falling away to reveal pain. Pain that was always there, if Sam looked for it, but was now an exposed nerve.

“It’s your father,” she began.

Fear gripped Sam’s spine. “Is he—did he—”

“He’s alive,” Jodi said hastily. “He’s…well, that’s why this is partially good news. Three years ago, he…he went missing. But they know where he is now, and he is alive. They…they just called.”

The horrifying revelation that he’d been right, that something had been wrong and she’d refused to tell them, crashed over Sam’s head. He felt sick. “Where is he, then?”

His mother pressed her lips together. She didn’t want to say.

“Mom, please.” Now he felt like a child, begging his mom like this.

She took a short sharp breath and admitted, “He’s in a prisoner of war camp.”

Sam stood up immediately, feeling like a hand was squeezing his lungs. “What the fuck?”

“Do not use that language with me,” she said sharply, readjusting so she could stand.

“Are you—what the fuck, Mom!” He buried a hand in his hair. “Why didn’t you tell me he was missing?”

“There was no need for both of us to worry,” she said, insultingly calm as she rose to her feet.

“You think I haven’t been worried?” he demanded. “You think I haven’t noticed he hasn’t been on leave in years?”

“Keep your voice down please,” Jodi hissed. “It wouldn’t have done any good for you to know.”

“I am a fucking adult,” he muttered back, feeling like a child even as he said it. “I was an adult when he went missing! You can’t just…treat me like Vince, I could have helped.”

“There was nothing you could do,” she said back. Her voice was infuriatingly level. “I was protecting you. And now they’re negotiating for his release. It will all be okay.”

Sam was disoriented, he was short of breath, he was…he was angry. Furious, in fact. This was his father. She’d kept secrets for no reason—

“Mom?” came Vince’s voice from the other side of the living room.

They both froze. Mom’s expression of serenity crumpled.

Shit. Shit, keeping secrets from Sam was one thing, but—well, maybe Vincent needed to know the truth too, but his mother sobbing was not the way.

He cleared his throat. “Hey Vince.”

Vincent wandered into the kitchen, rubbing his eyes. “Sam? Why are you awake?”

“Well, ‘cuz I was thinking you and me could go to the beach all day.” Sam glanced at his mom, clocked her relief, and kept going. “What do you think?”

Vincent’s eye’s shone. “Really?”

“Yeah!” Sam swallowed back the fear, the anger, all of it, until it sat in his chest like a melancholic grapefruit. Fun, this was for fun, this was a treat, it was special, how fun was today going to be! “Get your stuff and brush your teeth, we can go after breakfast!”

“Okay!” Vincent ran immediately back to his room.

Sam watched him go before he let his smile wilt.

“Thank you,” his mother said quietly.

He turned back to her, a little of the anger escaping its new home in his chest. “I’m just buying you time. If you don’t tell him the truth, I will.”

She went pale. She was angry too. “You do not have any right to take that boy’s childhood from him.”

“Is that what you were doing to me? Preserving my childhood?” Sam scoffed. He turned to his room to get his swimsuit. “I’m fucking grown.”

“Is that what you think?” his mom said quietly, almost introspectively, as he walked away. He ignored her.

*

Samira had a mouthful of nails, which was much more metal conceptually than in practice. In practice it tasted like shit, but she saw why people did it. Kept her from breaking up her flow. She laid another board onto the bridge framework she’d put together, spat another nail into her hand, and kept going.

“Samira!”

She looked over her shoulder to find Vincent running toward her, Sam not far behind. She took the nails out of her mouth and settled back into a crouch. “Hey!” Fantastic, this was the sweatiest she’d ever been in her life, the ornate mock-chatalein belts she was wearing were holding tools in handy but decidedly not goth leather pouches, and she was fairly sure she’d forgotten deodorant this morning. A great way to meet her crush on the beach.

Whatever, focus on Vincent, who looked as perky and happy to see her as he ever did. What a good kid. “What are you doing?” he asked her.

“Fixing this bridge,” she said, gesturing to the little footbridge over the rivulet splitting the beach. “It bothered me that it’s been broken.”

“Why is there a bridge?” Vincent wondered. “There’s less beach over there.”

“There are tide pools,” Samira said, standing up. “I bet you could dig for shellfish or like…do some science shit.”

“Cool,” Vincent said, nodding solemnly.

She noticed that he was wearing what looked like swim trunks. She looked up at Sam for the first time properly, and noted that along with trunks, he was wearing an expression like the one he’d had when he’d seen blood the other day.

“Fun day at the beach?” she ventured.

Sam seemed to focus on her face for the first time.

“Yeah!” Vincent enthused. “We’re going to go swimming and build a sand castle and stuff.”

“It’ll be fun,” Sam said, in a voice that sounded like he was talking about a funeral.

Okay, so something was very wrong with Sam. He honestly looked like he was going to pass out. And Yoba dammit, Samira wasn’t going to let that just happen. Stupid crush. Stupid caring about people.

“It’s a little cold to swim this early,” Samira said. “Want to start with the sand castle? I think I need to talk to your brother for a minute anyway.”

“That’s smart,” Vincent said, nodding. “I’ll start.”

“I’ll be right there,” Sam assured him, a little hoarsely.

“Samira, can you join too?” Vincent asked.

“After I’m done with the bridge, for sure.” She slipped the nails into one of her pouches and hung the hammer in its loop.

“Cool,” Vincent said, and ran off to find a good spot.

Samira watched him go, waiting until he was out of earshot to turn back to Sam. “Okay, so what’s—shit, are you okay?”

Sam was not okay; his head was hanging, chest heaving. He had covered his mouth with a hand, presumably to hide the quickness of his breathing, but he was pressing his face so hard that the skin was turning white.

Shit. Samira glanced at Vincent again to be sure he wasn’t too close or looking this way—he wasn’t—before she got closer to Sam, so she could speak under her breath. “Hey. Talk to me. You with me?”

Immediately he started shaking his head, refusal to—to what, talk to her? His hand slid from his mouth from the side of his head, the same side she’d bandaged up. “I can’t, I—no. No. No.”

“Okay, okay, you don’t have to talk, you just…just try to slow your breathing down. You’re going to hyperventilate.”

He just kept shaking his head, not slowing down, buckling slowly.

When was the last time she’d helped someone through a panic attack, Samira wondered. Sometime in high school, probably. She hadn’t had many friends since then. She was tempted to take his arms, steer him to the rivulet, splash him with water, but none of those were the right way to deal with this.

“Hey, listen.” She started snapping down by her hip, one snap for every breath in and out, trying to match his rhythm. “You hear that?”

He stopped shaking his head, listening, and then nodded.

“Breath with it. In, out, in, out.” She snapped for every breath, and then, very slightly, slowed her snapping. “In, out. In, out. In…out. In…out. In. Out. There you go. That’s right.”

He followed her, mercifully, each breath slower, until she felt like she could stop snapping, and his back heaved with long breaths. “What…what the fuck was that?” he gasped.

“Panic attack, I think.” It was probably safe to touch him now; she very carefully took one elbow and pulled him toward the bridge. “Here. Sit down a minute.”

He did, nearly folding in half before landing in the sand. He curled up almost in a ball, pressing his hands into the back of his head.

She sat beside him and let him catch his breath for a minute. This was so weird. Out of character. Sam was chill about everything. Literally everything. Did he actually have anxiety or something? Or was something seriously wrong?

“I’m sorry,” Sam said eventually, his voice raw.

“You can’t control when you have a panic attack,” Samira said, looking straight ahead at the other side of the beach instead of at Sam. “Especially if you haven’t had one before.”

“Yeah, I guess that’s…a panic attack? Really?”

“I think so.” Samira looked over and found his hazel eyes affixed to hers. She swallowed back a few butterflies. “What’s…what happened? What’s wrong?”

Sam loosed a shuddering breath. “No, I—I can’t talk to you about this.”

“Why not?” A bad feeling took root in her stomach.

“Because you’re Gotoro,” Sam murmured.

The bad feeling bloomed. She felt her expression turn to stone, and the butterflies in her stomach died. Flatly, she said, “Oh.”

“No, wait,” he groaned. “That sounded fucked up. It’s not like that.”

“What the fuck is it like then?” she spat.

“It’s my dad, it’s the fucking war, that’s my problem,” he sputtered. “And you don’t need to deal with all that. On top of everything else you deal with. Because you’re Gotoro.”

The bad feeling in Samira’s gut wilted, and melted away.

“Oh,” she said again. Softly.

Weary, Sam rested his head against his knees.

This was…new. This was something new. A couple of butterflies reappeared in her stomach, fluttering hopefully.

She reached out, hesitantly, and touched his knee, just with her fingertips. When he looked up, she gathered her courage and said, “Tell me.”

He swallowed. She watched his Adam’s apple dip. “Are you sure?”

She nodded.

He took a deep breath, very slow, and leaned back on his hands.

*

Sam was bone-tired by the time he and Vincent said goodbye to Samira that afternoon. Panic attacks, it turned out, were exhausting. But once he’d gotten the whole situation out into the air, he found that the grapefruit of emotion in his chest had shrank. He could breathe again.

He was less angry at his mom, too.

“I don’t know if I really will tell him,” he’d said at the end, once he was fully laying down in the sand. “I just needed Mom to like…understand.”

“Hm.” Samira was back to building her bridge, hammering in nails in between his ramblings. She took the four or so nails out of her mouth to say, “I bet he knows.”

Sam frowned and looked at his brother, dutifully tapping the outside of an upturned bucket, to make sure the sand didn’t stick. “Nah. No way.”

“If you can hide that you’ve been worried about all this, I bet he can too,” she said, and put the nails back in her mouth.

There may have been something to that.

After a bit, Sam joined Vincent in building his sand castle, and Samira finished her bridge just in time to help add some finishing touches. She’d even splashed around with them in the surf, and shared their packed lunch, contributing snacks of her own. Sam couldn’t stop shooting grateful looks at her, and once in a while he would catch her smiling. He loved her smile.

They went home later that afternoon, waving goodbye to Samira, who charged Vincent with taking good care of his brother—a duty Vincent solemnly promised to fulfill. And maybe it was because he was already pretty fragile emotionally, but it made Sam want to cry.

They were walking across the bridge into town when, as was his custom, Vincent said, “Hey Sam.”

Sam smiled. Right on schedule. “Yeah?”

“Is something wrong with Dad?”

The same horrible tightness gripped his lungs, but just for a moment. He forced himself to breathe, slowly. “What uh…what makes you think that?”

“Heard Mom crying.” Vincent didn’t say this with any particular fear or emotion. Like it was normal. “Last time that happened, Dad stopped coming home.”

Fucking hell. Vincent remembered that from when he was…what, five? Fuck. Samira had been right.

“Uh, well, Dad’s alive. But no, he’s not okay.” Moment of truth, he guessed. It wasn’t a matter of stealing his childhood, at least. “You should ask Mom. We can ask her together.”

“Okay,” Vincent said.

They walked in silence. Sam tried to read his brother. He seemed…okay. Tired. That was probably good, to tire him out on the beach.

“Hey Sam,” he said presently.

“What’s up, Vince?”

“Do you think the Kraken is real?”

A laugh escaped Sam. “Uh—I don’t know! It’d have to be huge, right?”

“Yeah, but the ocean’s still really unexplored, so maybe it’s down there!”

Sam tousled his brother’s hair. “Maybe it is! Maybe it is.”

Nothing had really changed since this morning, but even so, everything was different now.

Chapter Text

“Is it okay if I ask?”

Samira knew this line of questioning was coming. It made her skin crawl. This was the price she paid for hanging out with Sam after the thing on the beach. She’d practically asked for this.

This did not make her less angry. Not necessarily at Sam.

The two of them were walking through the woods, as Sam had asked if she wanted to hang out, and she had said she had a stupid chore to do, and he’d offered to come with, and that had been so sweet that it made Samira feel gooey inside. So she’d said yes, trying not to read too much into it. He helped a lot of folks with chores. He was almost perpetually looking for someone to hang out with.

On this crisp day, one of the first real days of fall, she was going to try to hack apart a giant log. There was something back there, she swore there was, and she’d just upgraded her ax again and she was determined to find out what. And he was coming with her.

If she could hold onto her temper until then.

“You can ask.” Samira tried to make her jaw relax. “I might not answer. Depending on the question.”

Sam loped beside her as they walked, and there was no subtle way to look up at his face to see what crossed it in the intervening pause. She couldn’t help but feel bitterness lying in the pit of her stomach like acid. Maybe this would be the day she had to turn on him.

Finally he asked, “Who do you hope wins?”

The question was surprising. She blurted, without thinking, “No one. I hope both sides surrender. I hope it’s over and no one wins, and it’s so bad they don’t try again. Ever.”

“Fuck, right?” Sam said with a giant sigh. “Do you think it’ll ever end?”

“No,” Samira said bitterly. “People are too stubborn to admit when they’re wrong.”

Sam didn’t answer that. Samira chanced a glance up and found his brow wrinkled in contemplation.

“Well?” she demanded, without quite knowing what she was demanding.

Sam shrugged. “Do you like…do you hate my dad?”

Fucking dads. This was about to get complicated. Suddenly a new fear appeared in her mind; maybe she would be on the other end of rejection today.

“I don’t know your dad,” Samira said flatly, in lieu of saying what she knew would be unacceptable.

“Soldiers in general, then.”

Well, that was a different question.

“I don’t understand the type of person who signs up to kill people on purpose,” she said, trying not to growl.

He grimaced. “You don’t always think about that part.”

Samira raised an eyebrow. “Who’s ‘you?’”

Sam looked like she'd just pointed a gun at him. He swallowed. “I uh…thought about it. In high school.”

“And why’s that?” She forced her tone to stay under control.

“To impress my dad, why else?” Sam kicked a rock. “I thought…I don’t know, you know what it’s like. I thought it would make him like me.”

Cool dad, Samira wanted to spit, but she didn’t. What kind of a father had so little regard for his kid that he drove them to murder? Maybe she did hate his dad.

Instead she said, “I don’t know how it is. I don’t do things to make people like me.”

“I kinda admire you for that.”

His admiration bloomed in Samira’s chest, even as she scolded the treacherous butterflies in her stomach. One good compliment and she was all a-flutter like a middle schooler. It was so embarrassing.

“What else?” she said briskly.

Sam paused for such a long time that Samira glanced up again to check that he was still paying attention, and found him frowning into space, concentrating.

“Have you ever been?” he said finally. “To the Empire?”

“Once,” she said. “When I was…I don’t know, fourteen, I think.”

“What’s it like?”

Samira swallowed, excavating the memories carefully, like fragile relics. “The…the place my dad is from is in a smallish city. Much smaller than Zuzu. And I don’t remember much because…my mom had just died, and we had to leave in a hurry because the war was going to start again, so most of what I remember is like, being terrified.”

She glanced at Sam, to see how this news was received, and found him pale, but listening intently.

“It was hot. And we walked everywhere. It’s not like here, where you walk because everything’s close—I mean, stuff was close, you didn’t need to go far, but it was packed with people, all the time, even at night.” After the adults had gone to bed, her cousins had snuck her out to see what they had termed “the real city,” and Samira treasured that feeling, of being out and about with other teenagers, entirely free. Even if in hindsight, it hadn’t been the safest idea. “It was cool to speak Gotoro, and I knew more than I thought I would. Um.” What else? “All my aunties kept touching me and acted offended when I asked them to stop.”

Sam released a little amused huff, which made Samira smile.

“The food was good,” she went on. “I miss the food. There are places that get close in Zuzu, but they’re not quite right.”

He cracked a smile at that.

They were close to the woods now, passing by the big tree, and lo and behold, the caravan was parked underneath. An idea occurred.

“Here, c’mon,” she said, heading toward the caravan.

“Uh, Samira—” he began, but she ignored him and walked right up to the glamorous middle-aged lady in the caravan’s window.

“How are you doing today?” Samira said, trying not to be self-conscious about her somewhat stilted, very regional Gotoro. The merchant hadn’t minded the first time Samira had tried it, so she wouldn’t mind now.

The lady brightened. She was paler than Samira, but her facial structure made her ethnicity unmistakable, an arch, lovely nose and eyes that were glittering black. “I’m well, thank you my dear. What can I do for you?”

Gotoro was a multiplicitous language. There was a formal version that they taught you to speak, but there were also endless dialects and regional idioms. Samira thought the traveling merchant, with her lilting musicality, must be from the center of the Empire, although she would never call herself an expert on accents. Samira’s father and his family came from the Empire’s southern reaches.

“Not much, just wanted to say hi,” she said, and then switched to English to invite Sam into the conversation. “This is my friend Sam.”

Sam had followed her, and at this beckons stepped forward. “Hi,” he said, almost shy.

“Hello Sam,” she said, her accent lending an air of mystery that she wholeheartedly embraced for, Samira suspected, branding purposes. “I am Maram.”

“Got anything rare today?” Samira rested her elbows on Maram’s windowsill, casual. If she acted like this was a big deal, she didn’t know what Sam would do.

“Well you know, my dear, I would not offer this to just anyone,” Maram said, sprinkling the Gotoro in amongst the foreign words, as she was wont to do. “But because it is you…” Maram reached behind her to her stock, and held out a tiny red pouch. “What about this?”

Samira took the pouch gingerly. Inside was a single seed, shaped a little bit like a cherry stone. “What grows from it?”

“I am not a farmer, I am a merchant, and you know this,” Maram said, her accent making her sound a little bit like she was singing. “But I am told it grows a very sweet berry. Have you ever tried a gem berry?”

“Oh, shit, not since I was little,” she said, and turned to Sam. “Speaking of the food. Gem berries are the fucking best. Do they even grow here?”

“You are the farmer, you must tell me,” Maram said, chuckling. “Will you buy it?”

“Yeah, totally,” Samira said, counting out the coins and slipping the seed into her pocket. “Thank you.”

Maram winked as she collected the coins and put them away somewhere behind the counter. “Is he your boyfriend?”

Samira blushed immediately, and was again grateful that her skin didn’t really go pink. “No! Just a friend!”

“Sure, okay,” Maram said, laughing. “You let me know if it will grow. I am interested. It was nice to meet you, Sam.”

“Nice to meet you too,” he said, very formally, and the two of them walked away as Maram waved.

“Now you’ve met two Gotoro people,” Samira said, heading forward to the giant-ass log.

“Yeah,” Sam said, thoughtfully. “What was that last part about?”

Samira blushed again. “Nothing. Auntie stuff.”

“Auntie stuff?” Sam was mystified.

“Yeah, every half-decent old person treats you like a nephew or niece if you’re Gotoro,” Samira said. “Sometimes it’s annoying.”

“Hm,” was Sam’s only response.

They arrived now at the giant-ass log, and Samira pulled out her ax. “All right. Let’s fucking go.”

“Do you want help?” Sam said, backing off to a safe distance.

“I’ll let you know,” Samira said, and started swinging.

It really was remarkable, Samira thought, that this time half a year ago, she didn’t even know how to use an ax.

*

It really was remarkable, Sam thought, that watching the girl he was head over heels for take an ax to a giant log like she had a vendetta was the least scary part of his day.

Penny would probably be proud of him, but he had been petrified to know what Samira really thought about the war, about his dad, about him…

But instead she’d been blunt, but not cruel, and introduced him to the parts of Gotoro culture he really wanted to know. And she hadn’t thought less of him. Or at least, she didn’t let on if she did.

To be honest, now watching Samira hack apart a log made him simultaneously horny as hell and want to write a song about her. He focused as hard as he could on the latter feeling.

“Fuck yeah!” he called, when the log was in pieces and the tunnel of trees was revealed. “You good?”

She was breathing hard, wiping sweat off her forehead. “Yeah. We should collect this later, this is good hardwood.”

Sam jumped up immediately to pick up and stack the scattered wood, which didn’t take long. By the time he was done, he felt a little less like he wanted her to bring him to bits next and more like he was helping a friend with a chore, which was exactly what this was. Nothing more. “You want to leave this here?”

“Thank you,” she said, shocked. Why was she shocked? “Uh…yeah. Let’s go.”

Her hands were free now—must have put her ax away while Sam was piling up the wood—and Sam saw her hands flex and dance at the end of her arms as they entered the close tunnel of trees.

“Are you nervous?” he asked, his voice lowered. Felt a little bit like stepping into a library.

“A little.” She was quiet too.

“How come?”

“…No real reason. Hey, look.”

He was pretty sure she was lying, but still, he ducked under a low thicket and entered after her.

“Woah,” he breathed. The hidden grove was still and close, with autumn leaves falling lazily through the murky sunlight. He was pretty sure there was a little pond too. The whole place smelled fragrant and soft and beautiful.

“Look out!”

Samira had shouted and drawn a fucking sword before Sam could even flinch, and she was hacking apart some kind of…thing that looked like a jello mold, what the fuck—

“So there’s fucking slimes in here!” she muttered through gritted teeth, swinging her sword into a different slime and slicing it neatly. “Now I get it, little fuckers!”

One was coming up behind her, and a third to one side, and shit, she was about to be surrounded.

Without thinking, he hurled an arm around her, lifted her bodily out of the way, and deposited her where she could see all three.

“What the fuck—” she started to shout at him.

“Look!” He flung out his hand to the slimes, and she instantly sprung into action, hacking until each slime was dead.

In the quiet that followed, both of them panting, frozen in case more slimes came out of nowhere, Sam struggled for something to say that wasn’t just, holy fucking shit, that was hot.

“I thought the sword was part of the look,” he said finally.

“Nah, this shit’s functional.” She pulled a rag out of her pocket and wiped the slime goo off the blade. “The mines are dangerous. Are you okay?”

“Are you okay?” he demanded.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine,” she reassured him. “The slime’s caustic, but they’re not that tough to beat. Did you get any on you?”

Sam gave himself a quick once-over and shook his head.

“It’s fine, then.” She put away her sword and suddenly her posture changed. Almost…shy. “Thanks for watching my back.”

“Sorry, I…I know you don’t like to be touched,” he said quickly.

“I prefer it to chemical burns,” she said, her tone dry, concealing something. “It’s fine. You can airlift me out of danger anytime.”

What was she hiding? Rarely had the vibe check failed Sam so thoroughly. He blamed the crush, because there was no way she was…

Was she embarrassed? No way. Not Samira.

She looked away, and Sam realized he’d been trying to like, stare into her soul. “C’mon,” she said. “Let’s explore.”

This clearing wasn’t very big, although the stumps left scattered among the trees implied that the trees here had once been absolutely colossal. New growth forest, maybe? That was a thing, right? He didn’t know anything about forestry.

“Look over there,” Samira said, still hushed.

He did, and spotted through the trees some kind of structure. “What is that?”

“Let’s find out,” she murmured.

The urge to hold her hand had never been stronger.

They eased their way through the trees to find what used to be a courtyard, cracked white paving stones lined with broken and partial columns. If there had been a roof, any trace of it was long gone. Sam froze—but there was not, as he’d first thought, a person in the courtyard, just a crouching white statue, sitting in the middle like a friendly little frog.

“What the fuck?” Samira said, delighted, and crossed the courtyard. “Hi, man, what’s up?”

Sam laughed and followed her. There was writing carved into a plinth by the statue.

“What’s it say?” Samira asked, circling the statue, examining it.

Sam crouched down to read it. “Old Master Cannoli. Still searching for the sweetest taste.” He stood up again. “What do you think that means?”

Samira frowned, and took out the little red pouch with the…what did she call it, the jawahaba or something, the seed. She considered it carefully. “Huh.”

“What is it?”

“Don’t know yet,” she said, slipping the pouch back into her pocket. “We should probably get that hardwood back to the farm. Will you help me carry it?”

Sam brightened. He’d never actually seen the farm. “Sure.”

“Hell yeah. I think the rest of these stumps are hardwood too. Might be worth clearing this place out.” The two of them made their way back to the tunnel of trees. “Robin says she can help me build out the house. Fix up the kitchen.”

“Dude that’s like, real adult shit,” Sam said.

“Been doing a lot of that lately,” Samira muttered. “It doesn’t feel quite real, you know? We’re so young.”

This hit a little close. After the news about his dad came out—and after giving his mom the chance to explain to Vincent, and her doing so in the most condescending possible way—Sam really did feel like he was outgrowing home. It was an inconvenient feeling, on top of everything else. He’d been ignoring it.

“Hey,” Samira said, as they emerged back into the sun. “Thanks for today. It was nice.”

He wanted to kiss her so bad. He wanted to pick her up again and hold her close this time. He wanted to get his fingers tangled in her fishnets. He wanted to take her home and find smears of her makeup on his pillow the next morning.

Fuck, he was hopeless.

“No worries,” he said.

Chapter Text

Abigail gave a last little flourish as they finished the song, waiting for the sign from Sam for that last hit, and…there. Pure ecstasy. Those music is my drug posts were kinda old school and cringe these days, but this truly was better than crack. She assumed.

“Okay, yeah, that works,” Sam said, nodding. He looked pleased. “I might tighten up your part a little later, Seb.”

“Yeah, the bridge was a little strange,” Sebastian said, playing the riff again. “What a song. Very Led Zeppelin.”

“Have you considered that Led Zeppelin fucking shreds?” Sam said, grinning.

“It’s a compliment, relax.” He nodded to Abigail. “I was worried that beat would drag, but it hits.”

“Thank you,” Abigail said, beaming. Sam had asked her what beat she thought was best. She took the pencil off her stand and wrote down what she was doing so she didn’t forget. “Sam where did this come from? It’s so sword and sorcery.”

“I was thinking about Samira walking around with a fucking sword,” Sam laughed. “What’s that tabletop game, Seb?”

“Solarian Chronicles?” Sebastian nodded thoughtfully. “That is kind of the vibe.”

“I love it,” Abigail said with satisfaction. “We almost have enough songs for a gig now.”

Sam brightened. “Do you think so? They’re all gig-worthy?”

“Well hang on,” Sebastian interjected, like the giant downer he was. “How long is a gig?”

“Okay, so, I’ve been looking into this,” Sam said, and he said it with so much intensity that Abigail instantly believed him. “At this point we’re like nobody, right, so if we’re real lucky, we’ll get like, an opener gig for a bigger band. Or maybe a slot at the shittiest bar we can find.”

“Am I allowed to play at bars?” Abigail wondered.

“Probably not, I was thinking about that, so an opener gig would be our best bet, if we can get one,” Sam went on. “So that’s maybe a half hour. Probably about six songs.”

“All right, so we have fucking banger ‘Outcast Hero,’” Abigail began, counting off on her fingers. “We have ‘Good for You,’ we have ‘Panic,’ ‘Gone Fishing,’ ‘Closer Now,’ um…am I missing any?”

“Nah, that’s all of them so far.” Sam rubbed the back of his head. “I’m working on a couple more—it’ll be good to have extras—but like, here’s another thing. I think we need to record some of this for real.”

“How do you propose we do that?” Sebastian said, leaning over his keyboard. “Professional recording time is fucking expensive.”

“I know, I looked it up,” Sam said, not missing a beat. “But I’ve almost got enough saved up for an EP. And it’d be good to have CDs and like, digital copies available if we have a gig.”

The idea was exciting, but Abigail stopped herself from going full believer right away. Not quite yet. “Aren’t we getting ahead of ourselves? If we had an album, we’d need art, or photos or something. We’d need packaging to put CDs in, and printing and stuff.”

The boys shot her quizzical glances.

“I’m taking a class on manufacturing,” she said, feeling defensive. “I’m just saying. If we want to look like we know what we’re doing. And also, like…do we know what we’re doing?”

Sebastian shrugged noncommittally, but Sam drew himself up straight and said, “I think I do. If you guys…if you guys want to come with me on it.”

Oh, this was so sweet. “Fuck, Sam, when you put it like that—of course we do,” Abigial said. “I do. I for sure want to be part of this band.”

Sebastian, because he was a thoughtful person, stopped to think about it for a bit. “…I think that when we started the band it was just for fun, but…I don’t know, we sound really good. Your songs are kind of excellent and…I’m much more comfortable with the idea of doing this for real.”

Sam beamed. “Thanks, buddy.”

Abigail clasped her hands together. There were a million steps in between now and being a real band, but she was choosing the bright side today, because there was a real chance this could be fantastic. “They really are good songs, Sam. ‘Good for You’ is like, visceral.”

“My favorite is ‘Gone Fishing,’” Sebastian said, standing up straight again to stretch. “You don’t hear a love song like that very often.”

“It is so romantic,” Abigail said, enjoying the view of Sebastian’s lithe stretching form in the corner of her eye. “That and ‘Closer Now.’ And ‘Closer Now’ is so sad too.”

“Do you think it’s sad?” Sebastian turned around to face her. “I think it’s kind of…schadenfreude.”

Abigail laughed, she couldn’t help it. “Like I guess. Who uses the word schadenfreude all casually like that?”

Sebastian rolled his eyes. “Whatever. It’s good, is the point.”

Sam, meanwhile, was looking at them with big ol’ puppy dog eyes. “You guys have favorites?”

“Of course we do! Turns out, you’re a good songwriter,” Abigail teased. “Where did the ideas even come from?”

“Ah, you know, I just write what I’m thinking about,” Sam said, rubbing the back of his head.

Abigail’s eyebrows shot up. “You been thinking about romance a lot?”

Sam went pale. “I—well, you know, it’s like—”

“Oh you have!” She giggled like a weirdo, but it was too good. “Sam’s got a crush!”

“No wait, hang on—”

“Who are you crushing on, Saaaam,” she crooned.

Sebastian looked vaguely amused. “Is that true?”

“Nah, thinking about romance or whatever isn’t the same as having a crush, c’mon,” he protested feebly, going from pale to blushing.

“Then why are you so red, hmm?” She laughed. “Let’s see, who could it be?”

“Penny?” Sebastian suggested.

“Bad luck if so, she’s super gay.”

Sebastian was intrigued. “Is she?”

“How did you not know that?” Abigail wondered. “Could it be Maru?”

Sebastian pulled a face. “Why?”

“Stop.” The hardness in Sam’s tone was unexpected, and the look on his face wasn’t just angry—he looked a little sick.

Abigail winced. “We were just teasing,” she said apologetically.

“What’s your problem?” Sebastian asked.

“I don’t have a problem, I just don’t want to talk about this, this sucks.” Sam struggled to take his guitar off his back. “We’re done with practice, right?”

“I guess,” Sebastian said, narrowing his eyes. Oh, he knew something. “You good, Abigail?”

“I’m good,” she said, standing and tucking her drumsticks into their little pouch. She loved that little pouch. “Sorry, Sam, I didn’t mean to embarrass you.”

“It’s fine, see you guys tomorrow.” Sam was talking too quickly. Major deflection. He hurried the two of them out the door.

Abigail found herself outside with Sebastian, feeling pretty awful. “Shit. Did I fuck up permanently? Do you think he’s okay?”

“He’s fine, it’s Sam,” Sebastian said dismissively, still glaring at the door. “You really think it could be Maru?”

Abigail shrugged as the two of them started walking across the courtyard. “It was just a thought. Maybe he got an internet girlfriend, like you. Or…oo, what if it’s a boy?”

“I don’t think so,” Sebastian said flatly. “Not everyone is bisexual.”

“More’s the pity,” Abigail said, thinking hard. Who had Sam been hanging out with lately? “You have an idea, don’t you?”

Sebastian gritted his teeth. “It better not be who I think it is.”

“Okay??” Who would make Sebastian this angry? “Oh shit, you don’t think it’s Samira, do you?”

“It had better fucking not be, he knows I like her.”

Abigail leaned away from him a little. “So what, he’s not allowed to have feelings?”

“You don’t know anything about bro code,” Sebastian said haughtily.

Abigail rolled her eyes. “You sound like you’re twelve.”

“You don’t get it, okay, you don’t hit on a girl if you know your bro likes her.”

Uh oh. “Is that a rule?”

“Yeah.” Sebastian huddled into his shoulders as a breeze kicked up. “If it’s even Samira.”

Abigail hesitated, but not for long. She never was any good at letting things work themselves out. “Well. ‘Outcast Hero’ is about Samira. Is it a huge stretch to say the rest are about her too?”

Sebastian stopped walking abruptly. “That fucking bastard.”

“And hey, as long as you’re mad about people liking Samira—”

Chapter Text

All right, Samira thought, settled into her one chair. The house was clean, the early morning farm chores were done, and her dad would be just getting off his night shift and eating breakfast. It was time.

Moon very thoughtfully jumped up onto the table beside her, watching intently as she pulled up FaceTime. That looked good, good job, Moon. Samira scratched his ears idly with one hand, which he allowed, and tapped the name on her phone. It didn’t ring for long.

“My Samira!” Dad greeted her, mouth half full of what looked like a breakfast burrito. The backdrop was home, her Dad’s kitchen. “Your timing is good.”

“Just lucky I guess,” Samira said, shrugging. He didn’t need to know how much thought she’d put into this. “How are you, Dad?”

“Oh, I am well, I am well.” He waved a hand at the screen, exaggeratedly. “Things never change here, you know that.”

“Dad, last month you told me that the hospital was changing your insurance and screwing over a lot of people,” Samira protested.

“This is why unions are important,” he said, very seriously. “The issue has resolved itself. All is well with me. But I am not concerned about me.”

“I’m concerned about you.”

“This is why you are a good daughter, but there is no need. My insurance will not change, and my heart medicine will stay the same price, and I will live to be a hundred and twenty and bother your grandchildren as well as mine.”

Some distinctly teenage embarrassment welled up in Samira’s chest, but it was accompanied by fondness. “Your reign of terror will truly never end,” she said, holding back a laugh.

“Never,” Dad said, winking. “How is the farm? Are you coming back to the city yet?”

“I have to bring in the last harvest and winterize this place, Dad,” she said, pretending that he was asking for a visit instead of a move back home. “It’s a lot to steal away for a weekend.”

“The farm is the one doing the stealing,” he said, tsking. “I want to see my daughter at some point again. Perhaps sometime this year?”

And this was difficult. There were little things that Samira occasionally missed about Zuzu—takeout, going to a movie, concerts—but the big things? She didn’t miss any of those at all.

Except one.

“I’m sorry,” Samira said, trying to be a little dismissive. Just so he didn’t worry. “It’s really hard work. Everything takes a lot of time.”

“Are you doing your coping mechanisms? Well placed caffeine, and getting enough sleep?”

Samira tried not to heave a sigh, and was only partially successful. “Yes, Dad.”

“Is the executive functioning?”

Samira rolled her eyes. Fucking dad jokes. “Yes.”

“No rolling your eyes at me, young Miss, if you cannot afford medication then you have to take other steps.”

“I know, Dad.” That actually gave her pause. She maybe could afford medication now, actually, but how would she get it? She was fairly sure Harvey would write her a prescription, but could he fill it too?… “I really am okay. All the exercise helps too.”

“Are you getting totally blocked?” Dad asked.

Samira snorted. “What?”

“Blocked. Am I saying that right?” He took a bite of his burrito and repeated, “Blocked.”

“Are you going for stacked?” Samira said, trying not to laugh too hard.

“This is the word,” Dad said sagely. “My daughter is stacked.”

“I don’t know about that, you make me sound like a bodybuilder.” That was a good one, it had been a while since Samira’s dad had done a word mixup that good. He was self-conscious about his English, and the traces of accent that lingered therein, but to Samira it was as comfortable as a familiar sweater. “I am stronger, though.”

“This is good,” Dad said, nodding in satisfaction. “Do you dress like a vampire while doing the farm work?”

“Always,” Samira scoffed, pleased when he laughed.

“What do your neighbors think of that?” he said.

Samira smiled. “You know what’s weird? I actually have friends here.”

“I thought you said people were being stupid around you,” he commented. That was his euphemism for racism and microaggressions, proximity to stupid. It was how, Samira suspected, he kept from losing his temper. Like she did.

“They do. They still are. Just not my friends.” It had been a little while since anyone had said anything that bothered her, actually. The closest anyone had got was the conversation with Sam the other day.

“More or less than here?”

Samira pressed her lips together. That was hard to quantify. She wasn’t riding the bus every day, and you could gather a handful of microaggressions on the bus on a bad day. She didn’t come into contact with nearly as many people these days, so there were definitely fewer incidents…it was just that when an incident occurred, it came from someone she knew. It stung worse.

“You are taking too long to answer and worrying your poor father,” Dad said. “I do not like this, Samira. Should you be there, far away, or here, among your own community?”

Samira swallowed. “Community is a funny word, isn’t it?”

“Do not try to distract me,” Dad scolded. “You are old enough now that I wonder, will Samira settle down with a nice boy? Will there be grandchildren? Will she be happy?”

Something about that made her angry, but she didn’t feel like getting into a fight with her dad. She swallowed. “How am I supposed to answer all that, Dad?”

“I do not expect answers, but I wish you would consider these things.”

“It’s not like I don’t think about that stuff,” Samira blustered. “I do. Like, I have been thinking about it lately, and—”

“About who?” Dad interrupted mildly.

Samira stopped, feeling herself blush. “I meant like, in general.”

“Oh I am sure,” Dad said. “I am sure. And have you met a nice Gotoro boy in Pelican Town?”

“I’m sorry, am I not allowed to date who I want?” Samira demanded.

“Dating, feh.” Dad waved another dismissal. “Date who you want. But would you not want to settle down with someone who understands you?”

“Nobody understands me,” Samira said, in a frankly humiliating backslide into her high school despair.

To this, Dad just shook his head. “I am sorry you feel this way, my Samira.”

Samira bit her tongue so she wouldn’t say something she regretted.

“I want to know you are happy, that is all,” he said finally. “Are you happy?”

Samira considered this. When was the last time she had really been happy?

She remembered, all in a rush, Sam’s arm around her waist, pirouetting her out of harm’s way as easily as a dancer.

“I have…my moments,” she said. “I’m out of practice, but…sometimes.”

Dad didn’t look like he believed her. “I miss you, my Samira.”

Samira sighed. “I miss you too, Dad.”

He took a slow and thoughtful bite of his burrito before squinting at the screen. “Is that little Moon with you?”

“Yeah, it is.” Samira turned the phone to Moon. “Look, Moon, it’s your grandpa.”

“Hello little Moon!” Dad’s voice came crowing out of the phone speaker.

Moon gave a very obliging meow.

*

Samira wilted into her chair for a little while after she hung up. It was hard to talk to her dad sometimes. Draining. Samira counted herself lucky among second- and third-generation immigrant kids in that her parents never expected her to go the Doctor-or-Lawyer route. Dad hadn’t even blinked an eye or added to the shame of dropping out of college, when it all became too much. He hadn’t even mentioned the expense.

But his expectations were still there. Settle down with a nice Gotoro man and have nice Gotoro kids. Samira wasn’t opposed to kids necessarily—in fact, she’d often thought it’d be nice to have kids, and she would have them eventually, even if she had a hard time conceptualizing herself as a mother—but who the hell would look at a fucking Gotoro goth weirdo and want to put a baby in that?

The image of Sam floated past her mind’s eye.

She dismissed the image summarily. This was a stupid crush and it was stupid to consider Sam as a potential…anything.

Even though he was so good with his brother, he’d probably be a really good father—

No. Dad would be so disappointed in this white boy with no real job prospects. She could just imagine him asking, were Gotoro men not good enough for her?

Maybe, she thought, standing up and giving Moon one last head scratch, it would be smarter to go home. She would have to move back in with dad and find a job, but who knew? Maybe she’d find a nice Gotoro doctor with a kink for goths and it would be enough.

Today she still had things to do—clean up some weeds, cull some extra plants, bring some things to the fucking fairies—so she’d better get to it. She left her front door.

The sun was finally at a decent height in a gorgeous blue sky, and the rows of vibrant green corn in the field nearly glowed. A breeze picked up, carrying a few gold and red leaves from the little orchard of trees she’d been maintaining, whirling them through her farm and away.

It was so beautiful, it almost made her want to cry.

…Shit. She couldn’t leave. This was home.

Someday, she’d figure out a way to tell her dad that, she thought, and stepped down from her porch to get to work.

Chapter Text

Sam walked into the game room at the Stardrop Saloon and was instantly hit by a wave of horrific vibes.

“Holy shit, what’s wrong with you guys?” He looked over Sebastian first, chalking a pool cue to death, waves of resentment and fury rolling off of him, and then Abigail, who was reading a fucking accounting textbook, her stubbornness like a wall.

“Oh, Sebastian’s being a little bitch,” Abigail said overbrightly.

“Takes one to know one,” Sebastian muttered.

“Woah, dudes, can we chill the fuck out maybe?” Sam held up conciliatory hands. “What are we being bitches about?”

“Oh, you don’t know?” Sebastian snapped. “You’re going to come in here and pretend you don’t know what the fuck is going on?”

Sam was at a loss. “I’m…not pretending.”

Abigail heaved a sigh. “Sam, are you writing all your songs about Samira?”

Fear seized him, like a cold hand around his lungs. His hand floated up to the back of his head unbidden, and he breathed, “Shit.”

“You are!” Sebastian threw the cue out at Sam like an accusatory finger. “You son of a bitch.”

“I didn’t mean for it to be like this, okay, I just write about what I think about!” Sam held out his hands to Sebastian. “It wasn’t on purpose.”

“Betrayer,” Sebastian spat, dropping the cue on the pool table to cross his arms. “Benedict fucking Arnold.”

“You weren’t supposed to know,” Sam sputtered. “Neither was she. It wasn’t for her or—nobody was supposed to know.”

“Oh my Yoba, you guys are serious,” Abigail said, a little wonderingly.

“It’s the code, of course I’m serious!” Sam said.

Abigail examined the two of them through narrowed eyes. “Maybe I don’t understand men.”

“Both of you are fucking backstabbers,” muttered Sebastian.

Sam frowned. “Hang on, what did Abigail do?”

“Yoba, it’s so embarrassing,” Abigail groaned.

“She tried to snipe Samira!” Sebastian threw out a hand at her. “After she knew I was going to make a move! She made one first!”

…That was a little backstabby. Even if the thought had crossed his mind at the time to do the same thing, Sam hadn’t actually done it. “Abigail, that’s not cool at all.”

“Okay, first of all,” Abigail said, throwing her textbook aside, “I didn’t fucking know about the code, and if Samira had been gay you would have struck out anyway, all right?”

Sebastian scoffed and crossed his arms again, which was about how Sam felt about that particular excuse.

“And second of all,” Abigail went on, hands extended in front of her to emphasize her point, “Samira is a human being and a grown-ass woman, are we forgetting that? We don’t snipe a human being.”

Oo. Hm. Sam considered this. “She might have a point.”

“Oh my fucking Yoba, that is so not the issue!” Sebastian clenched his fists in front of him. “You fucking knew I liked her and you both tried something anyway!”

“Dude I swear the songs aren’t me trying anything, I swear,” Sam promised, and he meant it. “It’s like, just art. It was for me.”

“And what about Abigail then?” Sebastian demanded.

“Dude, did we hurt your feelings?” Sam said, trying to be gentle.

Unfortunately, gentle did not work on Sebastian, and he turned red. “Don’t make me sound like such a pussy, you fucking stabbed me in the back!”

“Excuse the fuck out of me!” Abigail stood up, ready to throw down. “Okay, this is the part where we find out how Sebastian’s a little bitch, because he’s fucking mad at you for breaking the stupid code, six months after the last time he made a move himself!”

“The crush doesn’t go away, idiot,” Sebastian snapped.

“It does if you try to get the fuck over yourself!” Abigail clutched her head. “I feel like I’m going crazy! Sam! He hasn’t tried anything in six months since she brushed him off, right?”

Now that was an interesting question. “Have you?” Sam asked him.

Sebastian was furious. “Well—no, but—”

“No one’s allowed to hit on Samira ever, because Sebastian can’t get over her or make a move,” Abigail sneered. “Bitch.”

This tension was going to kill Sam. He hated it when people fought anyway, but these were his friends and this sucked. “I think we need to fucking cool it, okay? I don’t like this. You guys are friends.”

“No friend of mine—” Sebastian began.

“Shut the fuck up, dude,” Sam interrupted. “Abigail shouldn’t have tried to hit on Samira before you got the chance, but she’s right. Samira’s a person. You don’t have like. A claim on her.”

“You just want her for yourself,” Sebastian muttered.

Sam sighed. “No, you don’t—look, I meant it, what I said before. Do you know how complicated that would be with my family? You think I want to expose her to all that?”

“Expose her?” Abigail said, suddenly interested.

“My dad’s a soldier!” Sam exclaimed, and saying it felt like pulling a pin out of a grenade. “My mom’s politics—fuck, and I’m—I’m an idiot, she wouldn’t—there’s nothing about what my family is that would appeal to her and they might…hurt her. Emotionally, I mean. I can’t do that to her.”

Abigail drew back, sobered. “Shit, Sam, are you okay?”

Oh that was so not the conversation he wanted to have right now. “Not important. Do you get it, Sebastian?”

Sebastian’s posture had slumped a little. “Man, I didn’t know.”

“No one was supposed to, it’s—I’m not stabbing you in the back. Neither is Abigail.” Sam sighed. “Okay?”

Sebastian leaned back until he hit the wall, defeated. “Shit.”

The tension dissipated, and Sam released a breath slowly. All it took was exposing his own internal organs to a guy who wanted to beat him up over a girl. Is this your best friend, Sam?

Sam looked up to find Sebastian rubbing his forehead. Embarrassed. Yeah. That was his best friend.

“Why haven’t you made a move again?” Abigail asked, after a long silence. She’d settled back down on the couch and was fixing the ruffled pages of her book.

Sebastian sighed, dragging his hand down his face. “I don’t want to talk about my fucking feelings.”

“Okay well, some would say that’s part of your problem,” Abigail proposed.

Sam couldn’t help but smile at that one.

Sebastian glared, not at either of them but at the room at large. “She shut me down pretty hard. I didn’t even manage to ask her out.”

“Shut you down how?” Sam asked. Not that he kind of wished he’d been there to see it…

“I told her we should go for a motorcycle ride sometime and she said she was scared of motorcycles, remember?” Sebastian scoffed. “I mean, what kind of a stupid excuse is that?”

“Maybe it’s not an excuse?” Abigail said. “Like, since when has Samira not said exactly what was on her mind? All the time?”

“Since when is Samira scared of anything?” Sebastian shot back.

“Everyone’s scared of something,” Sam said, thoughtfully.

“So like, are you gonna try again, or is Samira just off-limits now, or what?” Abigail said.

Sebastian pulled a face. “Do you think I should?”

Sam felt a little bit like he was being stabbed.

“Would that be breaking the bro code for Sam?” Abigail wondered.

Sebastian looked to Sam for the answer to this, one eyebrow raised.

What the fuck was he supposed to say to that? Yes? After all he’d said about not hurting her? After knowing, always knowing really, that it wasn’t going to work out and Samira would never like him? They had to be friends, because Sam couldn’t stand it if they weren’t, but could he stand it if Sebastian won her heart after all?

“I think you gotta try,” Sam said, swallowing back everything else like a bad taste in his throat. “Or else you’re stuck.”

Sebastian considered this. Sam got to work stuffing all those feelings down into a ball. Maybe he needed a drink. Or wait, was drinking when you were upset bad?

“Okay, I’ll…I’ll try again.” Sebastian straightened himself up, jaw set. “Halloween. Bet she loves Halloween.”

“That’s a great idea,” Abigail said, sneaking a look to Sam.

“Yeah,” Sam said, mustering up some enthusiasm. He could be happy for Sebastian. And Samira. It’d be fine.

Chapter Text

Sam was in a funk like he’d never experienced before. Like, he was easygoing. He was chill. Everyone liked him. Even when he pissed off Lewis by skateboarding in public or whatever, Lewis ended up saying he was just a misguided young man instead of a delinquent. Even when he was discouraged or sad or anxious, he’d just box those feelings up and hide them, and eventually they’d go away. Or maybe write a song about them to flush out the system.

This time, shoving down his feelings was not working. And worse, knowing now that Sebastian and Abigail knew about his songwriting technique made it so that he couldn’t even write.

So Sam took a different tactic—distract.

Metal was good for this. Pierce the Veil, Hailstorm, Sabaton, Amaranthe, even Bring Me the Horizon—Judas Priest had a new album out too, and listening through their discography brought Sam back to the older stuff. Megadeth. Ozzy Osbourne. Iron Maiden. Anthrax. And all that led to Metallica.

Metallica was his dad’s favorite.

It was listening to Metallica—“Nothing Else Matters,” on repeat, upside-down on the couch with his headphones in just loud enough to feel the bassline in his brainstem—when this tactic failed.

He could feel the vibrations of footsteps in his head, which was only just touching the floor, but he ignored them, eyes closed. He was focused on absorbing the plodding rhythm of the song into his skin.

The footsteps stopped in front of him. He opened his eyes—Mom was standing in front of him, saying something.

He slid his headphones to his neck, James Hetfield’s voice going tinny as it was exposed to the wider room. “What?”

“I said, can you try not to put footprints on my wall?” she repeated.

Sam slid his legs down and pulled himself into the seat of the couch. “Sorry.” He checked the wall behind his head, but it wasn’t like he’d been wearing shoes. “I don’t…I don’t see anything.”

“Small favors,” Mom said shortly, and though Sam expected that to be the end of it, she didn’t leave.

He paused, in the middle of the motion to slide his headphones back on. “Yes?”

“I don’t understand what’s happened to you lately,” she said, examining him carefully.

Sam heaved a huge sigh. “It’s nothing.”

“I wish you wouldn’t lie to me,” she said. “I just want Sam back. What happened to my cheerful son?”

Sam felt his jaw tighten. There was no way in hell he could tell Mom any single piece of this shitshow with Samira. And frankly, she wasn’t entitled to that information anyway. He had to protect Samira.

“I don’t know, Mom, it’s just hard,” he said, finally.

“What’s hard?” she asked innocently. No—sincerely. She genuinely didn’t know what was going on with him.

“Well, my dad’s in a prison camp and before that he was MIA,” Sam muttered. “And my mom decided not to tell me because she thought I couldn’t handle it.”

He wasn’t sure what made him bring up his father. Maybe it was Metallica.

Jodi pulled a face. “You can’t still be angry about that.”

Sam didn’t want to fight, so he swallowed back the bile in his throat and shrugged. “Okay.” He reached for his headphones again.

“I did what I thought was wise,” she said sharply. “I prayed about it. It was the only real option.”

“Mom, I’m twenty-two years old,” he sighed. “I think I could handle it.”

“If that’s true, then why are you moping around the house?” She crossed her arms.

The ball of emotion in his chest pulsed like a flash-bang with anger. He tried to swallow it back. “Why aren’t you?”

She looked genuinely taken aback by this question. “Because—because, Sam, if I started up on that, it would be all I ever did. I stay positive because I have to.”

“Why do you have to?” Sam demanded. “We’d understand if you were upset. It’s upsetting.”

“Because I have things to do, Sam, I have two sons to take care of and a household to run,” she said. “And I don’t think it’s too much to ask for the sons I take care of to have a good attitude.”

“You want me to have a good attitude about my missing father,” Sam said, and it came out as a growl. “Or pretend I don’t have personal problems. For what?”

“For me,” Mom said firmly. “Do it for me. As a thank you. Because you are twenty-two years old, Sam, and I cook and clean for you—”

“I clean,” Sam protested. “I could cook—”

“You stay here without paying rent or bills, you spend most of your time with your friends or messing around with your music.” Jodi’s words were like a slap to the face. “It is true that you take care of Vincent. And you do your share of chores. But much more you do not do.”

Mom’s face was like stone. Merciless. She meant every single thing she’d just said.

“Mom—” Sam croaked.

“So please, if it’s not too much trouble, can I ask for a little positivity?”

“Do you want me to move out or something?” Sam said, absolutely reeling. He had no idea she felt this way.

“No, that’s not—” Her hand fluttered up to her face, exasperated. “That’s not what I said at all.”

“Then what do you want?” Sam sputtered. “I’m supposed to just…play a part?”

“You make me sound terrible!” Mom protested. “I just want…”

Sam waited, a pit opening up in his stomach.

She sighed, and sat down beside him on the couch. “I just want us to be all right when your father gets back.”

She sounded defeated. But at least she sounded earnest too. Sam was too afraid to see what was written on her face.

The pit in Sam’s stomach yawned larger, almost large enough to swallow the ball of emotion in his chest. He wondered if this was how Mom felt all the time.

“What if we’re not all right?” he asked the floor. “What if we can’t pretend?”

“I don’t know,” Mom said wearily. “It probably isn’t good for us to pretend for so long, is it?”

“What you love ain’t always good for you,” Sam muttered.

“Your song?”

He looked at her with some alarm. “How do you—”

“Band practice isn’t quiet, you know,” she said briskly. “But I like that song.”

“You do?” Mom wasn’t a music person. At all. She didn’t even play music while doing chores, which was a concept so foreign to Sam that he had often wondered how they could possibly be related.

“Yes,” she said, decisively. “I can’t always make out all the words, though.”

That was probably for the best, given the nonzero amount of swearing in his lyrics, Sam thought.

“Did you say you have personal problems on top of all this with your father?” Jodi asked.

Oh, great. Sam suppressed a sigh. There was no point lying to her, she’d know. “Yeah.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“Not really.” This would defeat the purpose of the several more hours he planned to listen to Metallica.

“Is it about the band?” she asked.

She wasn’t going to give up unless he gave her some broad strokes, he suspected. Luckily she had given him an in. “Sort of. We had a huge fight the other day. Like, it’s kind of fine now, but I…”

He’d gotten the short end of the stick, is what. He’d given up any rights he had under bro code. If Sebastian could manage to be less of a little bitch for minute, Samira would probably be his, and Sam would just…suffer. Until he got over her. Which might be never.

“I don’t know,” he huffed. “It’s girl trouble, I guess.”

“Well, Fleetwood Mac had plenty of girl trouble, and they sounded great,” she commented.

A laugh burst out of Sam, surprising him. “What the—what the hell, Mom?”

“I mean it,” she insisted, which only made him laugh more. “I like Fleetwood Mac.”

“I don’t think we’re going to be Fleetwood Mac,” he said, shaking a little.

“I think you could.” She stood up, moved his bangs aside to kiss him on the forehead, and said, “I won’t ask you to be happy all the time. But please do let me know if I can help with the moping.”

“Only if you ask me for help sometimes too,” Sam said. She shouldn’t be putting on an act constantly all the time either, after all.

“Well that’s sweet of you,” Mom said, giving his shoulder a squeeze. Not agreeing, he noticed. She left for the kitchen.

Sam slumped back against the couch, feeling…a lot of different things. Marginally better in some ways. Marginally worse in others. At least he wasn’t fucked up like his mom was. Girl trouble was, in the grand scheme of things, survivable.

He slid his headphones over his head, took his phone out of his pocket, and switched from Metallica to Fleetwood Mac.

Chapter Text

“The Spirit’s Eve Festival?” Samira repeated, casting her line into the lake again.

“Yeah, it’s our Halloween thing,” Sebastian told her. “It’s kind of cool.”

Samira had been fishing when Sebastian had appeared beside her like a ghost. She hadn’t been too surprised—he lived literally right over there—but the words coming out of his mouth were downright shocking.

“And you want to go with me,” Samira said, because she didn’t quite believe it.

“As a date,” Sebastian clarified.

“That’s what I thought you said.” Samira looked at the tip of her pole, willing a fish to bite. Anything to get her out of this conversation. “Why?”

Sebastian had what Samira was picturing as a stupid-meter. Fill up the meter, frustrate him just enough, and he would inevitably say something straight out of the hallowed annals of 4chan. Or maybe not that bad—reddit, at least.

In light of…whatever this gesture was…Samira expected Sebastian’s stupid-meter to be near full, but Why was evidently not enough to push it over the edge. “Because you’re interesting and I want to get to know you one on one,” he said mildly. “You know, what dates are for?”

Samira conceded the point with a shrug. “Why Halloween?”

“It was time I got off my ass and just asked,” Sebastian said, still glib. Samira wondered if he meant it. “Besides, Halloween seems like kind of your thing.”

“I do love Halloween,” Samira admitted, and then immediately regretted it. Giving any quarter to Sebastian felt like losing.

This was probably a bad sign as far as going out with him was concerned.

She adjusted her line a little, only for the tip of the pole to dip. She gave it a tug—stuck.

“Shit, hang on a sec,” she muttered, standing. Maybe if she got a different angle…yes. The line fell free, and she reeled it in to find it coated in algae. “Ugh.”

“Lake’s gonna have algae in it,” Sebastian stated unnecessarily.

“I just wish it’d stop trying to eat my fishing line,” Samira said. “Let me clean this off.”

Handily, that gave her time to mull the offer over.

Like. On the one hand. She’d spent enough time hanging out with Sebastian along with Sam and Abigail to know what Sebastian was like. The stupid-meter was something she didn’t want to deal with. He rode a motorcycle. He was not good at listening. And anyway, it wasn’t Sebastian she had a crush on, it was Sam.

On the other hand, and she couldn’t believe there even was another hand, he was still really attractive, and unlike Sam, he was asking. Her father’s words rattled in her brain—Date who you want—but more than even that, his expectations fit Sebastian, who had a job, was handy, played a respectable musical instrument. Sebastian was, for all intents and purposes, a nice man. Even if he wasn’t Gotoro.

And he was asking. If Sam asked, Samira would say yes in a heartbeat, but Sam showed no signs of being anything more than a fun-loving friend. He was giving her nothing. And it wasn’t like she was opposed to asking him, she was a fucking feminist—if he gave her literally anything to work with—

Sebastian was here, asking.

“Okay,” she said, flicking the last algae off her line.

He straightened abruptly. “That’s a yes?”

“Yeah, I’ll go with you,” she said, scaffolding her nonchalance with her tone. “I’ll meet you there. What time does it start?”

“Ten,” he said, a rare smile creeping onto his face. “Um. By Pierre’s stand?”

“Done,” she said briskly, and cast her line again.

“Cool,” he said, nodding a little too much. “See you then.”

He made a graceful exit, leaving Samira kind of mystified.

*

“I mean, it’s a good costume,” Sebastian offered half-heartedly as they walked into the square.

This rang false, even though Samira knew, objectively, that he was correct. “You could have warned me, you know.”

Samira had broken out an older costume, but it was one of her favorites, and wearing it was the only time she’d felt confident or popular on her college campus. Unfortunately, it turned out, no one in Pelican Town dressed up. Not even the kids.

“I didn’t think about it, okay?” Sebastian scowled. “No one’s dressed up for like, decades. There wasn’t anywhere to trick or treat when I was a kid, even, so we just stopped doing it.”

“It’s not that it doesn’t make sense,” Samira muttered. Frankly having a low-key festival was a good small-town compromise to having maybe five places for two children to get candy. But being the only costumed freak in town put her at a disadvantage in this fucking date scenario.

Sebastian shrugged, and Samira gave up. This was supposed to be a date. “So what’s the deal?”

“I figure we’ll grab a bite, check out the monster situation, and then maybe do the maze,” Sebastian said, with confidence. “Sound good?”

“Sure.” Sebastian’s stupid-meter seemed pretty low at the moment. Trying to put on his best self, probably.

“Oh Samira!” It was Harvey, giant nerd, waving as he wandered toward them. “What an excellent Edward Scissorhands!”

That actually lifted her spirits a little. “Thanks. Didn’t know I’d be the only one dressed up.”

“A bit of a shame, isn’t it? I love a good costume.” He nodded to Sebastian and said, “You two heading to the maze?”

“Eventually,” Sebastian said, a little stiffly.

“Well then, I’ll see you inside.” He shrugged sheepishly. “If I don’t get lost.”

He waved as he went, and Samira waved back, the plastic blades of her scissors clicking together a little. Sebastian watched him go with a scowl.

“What’s your beef with the doc?” Samira asked.

Sebastian flexed his jaw. “He doesn’t seem like a creep to you?”

“He seems like a dweeb,” Samira scoffed, as they began walking toward a delicious smell. “Why do you think he’s a creep?”

“Why would he hire Maru if he wasn’t a creep? She wants to be an engineer, not a nurse.”

“She’s kind of a really good nurse though,” Samira said, remembering how much Maru’s mannerisms reminded her of her dad.

“Whatever.” Sebastian brushed off the conversation and pointed to a large cage in the courtyard. “Check it out.”

They approached the cage, which currently was inhabited by a couple of skeletons. Samira could never get over the skeletons in the mine—how did they get down so deep? Who did they used to be? How come they were walking around? And unfortunately the answer to her last question was fucking magic, which did absolutely nothing to answer her first two questions. And Marlon was no help on that matter.

“Pretty sweet illusion,” Sebastian commented, examining the skeletons carefully. “I’ve never been able to figure out how he does it.”

Samira squinted at him. This wasn’t quite stupid-meter levels of stupid, but—well okay, hang on, just because Samira believed begrudgingly in magic didn’t mean other people did. She was actually jealous of Sebastian for a second. Still, though, if he thought this was cool—

“It’s not an illusion,” Samira said casually. “I’ve fought these guys in the mine. They’re kind of tough.”

Sebastian turned to her, one eyebrow raised. “You’re fucking with me.”

“Nope,” she said. “You can ask Marlon.”

“I mean, yeah, I guess I can ask the guy who’s running the show whether it’s a load of bullshit,” Sebastian scoffed. “Seriously?”

“Look, he’s a pretty practical person, under all the grizzled adventurer stuff,” Samira said, wandering over to where Marlon was standing. “Hey, Marlon.”

“Ah, the Gotoro,” Marlon observed, and with a sinking sensation Samira remembered why she didn’t like talking to Marlon. “Greetings. Don’t get too close to the cage, young man.”

Sebastian scowled. “Why?”

“I’m sure it’s because he’s afraid you’ll figure out his illusion,” Samira said, rolling her eyes.

“What the hell do you take me for, girl?” Marlon said, shaking his head. “These are real monsters. It’s for your safety.”

“Caught them yourself?” Samira asked casually.

“Gil and me, yes,” Marlon said, which was actually something she appreciated about him, was that he wasn’t going to take credit for something he didn’t do. “Took us a week, but they’re not too bright without the brains.”

“You’re serious.” Sebastian looked like he was expecting a trick. “You’re saying that’s a real skeleton walking around.”

“No, it’s two,” Marlon said. “This exotic young warrior has found victory over her fair share of them.”

“Marlon, can you not fucking call me that?” Samira sighed. “I have a name.”

“It was a compliment,” Marlon assured her. “I know you’re Miss Samira.”

Well this fucking sucked. And Samira was suddenly interested in how Sebastian would react to some guy being weird at his date.

He was staring at the skeletons through narrowed eyes, paying no attention.

“Please use my name,” Samira said harshly to Marlon, and hooked her arm in Sebastian’s to lead him away. “Are we eating or what?”

“Yeah,” Sebastian eked out, surprised. “Uh—yeah, of course.” He repositioned so his arm wasn’t a noodle, so it looked like he was leading her.

“You weren’t gonna say anything when Marlon called me exotic and shit?” Samira asked him, under her breath so Marlon didn’t hear.

“He said it was a compliment,” Sebastian said dismissively. “C’mon.”

Samira felt her jaw tighten.

Sam would have said something.

*

Sebastian suspected this date was not going well. That is, Samira had major resting bitchface under normal circumstances, and the whole Scissorhands situation definitely convoluted things more, but she seemed…annoyed. Sebastian was currently taking turns wishing Sam was here for a vibe check and being grateful Sam wasn’t here to be a third wheel.

“You were right about this pumpkin bread, this is fucking great,” she was saying, a few crumbs falling onto her…chest area. “You said maze next?”

That, and she was just…so unimpressed. He’d thought the skeletons and the general Halloween festivities would appeal to her, but…fuck, she was probably used to parties in Zuzu City, that must be it. This small town local bullshit wasn’t impressive. Yet again, Sebastian found himself resenting Pelican Town for holding him hostage.

“Yeah,” he said, after pausing too long and being fully aware of it. “Yeah, let’s do the maze. The um…you said he was a wizard, didn’t you?”

“Mhmm,” she said, noticing the crumbs and brushing them off.

“Okay, sure,” Sebastian said, resisting the urge to roll his eyes. “The wizard sets it up every year. It’s actually scary, some years.”

“Cool,” Samira said, standing. She looked actually interested for the first time that night, so that was good. Sebastian stood as well, offering his arm again to her as they made their way to the maze. She ignored it.

This, Sebastian felt, was unacceptable. This was a date, dammit, and he might not be good at flirting, but he ought to be wooing this girl.

“I don’t mind if you need to get a little closer in the maze,” he said, offhand. “If you get scared. It really is pretty convincing in places.”

“I don’t scare easily,” Samira said flatly.

Sebastian gritted his teeth. Was she dense? Or was she making fun of him? “Look, I know your whole persona is really edgy and all, but you can relax, okay? It’s just me.”

She stopped walking to turn to him, eyes narrowed in suspicion. “What do you mean, my persona?”

“I’m just saying you don’t have to hide behind the whole goth thing, okay? Not with me.” This would be a relief to her, Sebastian was sure. If someone had offered him the opportunity to drop the act, he’d take it in a heartbeat. “Let me see the you behind the black.”

Her suspicion collapsed into absolute scorn. “Fucking stupid meter.”

“What are you—”

“There is no me behind the black,” she spat. “This is me. I’m not using this to hide. If anything, I expected you to fucking get that.”

Sebastian did not fucking get that. “What are you talking about? Why does anyone dress like you do?”

She leaned in close, her teeth bared. She was shorter than him by a pretty good margin, but at this point he felt like he needed to take a step back.

“Because,” she pronounced acidically, “I like it.”

And with that she whirled away toward the maze without him.

“Samira!” he called after her, a swift desperation sinking into his chest.

“This date sucked!” she called after him. “There won’t be a second one! Bye!”

She strode into the maze, fearless and alone.

Chapter Text

Sam lay on his floor, tossing a tennis ball up and down. It was a good way to occupy his stray focus, because the moment he missed a catch, it would likely hit Abigail, laying on the floor nearby.

“What about…Modern Fey?” she said. He could see her holding up her hands like a frame.

“Hmm.” Sam considered. “It sounds a little…folky.”

“Okay but think how sick it would be to break out your shredding after having someone make fun of you for being a fairy,” Abigail laughed.

Sam chuckled, tossing the ball again.

“Okay, you got one?” she asked.

“Laser Snakes,” Sam said immediately. “What do you think about Laser Snakes?”

“You hate snakes,” Abigail countered.

“But it sounds sick, though.”

“Think of the branding, dude, do you want snakes all over stuff?” she asked.

Sam conceded the point. “Maybe you two can be Laser Snakes and I can be something else.”

“Like what?”

Sam shrugged. “I don’t know. Rocket…Goose.”

Abigail snickered. “Rocket Goose and the Laser Snakes?”

Sam laughed. “Yeah, perfect band name. No flaws.”

They were still laughing when Sebastian opened the door to Sam’s room, stopping in the doorway. “I thought we were practicing.”

“We’re coming up with a band name,” Abigail explained.

Sebastian surveyed them, frowning. “On the floor?”

“It helps,” Sam said. “C’mon, help us think of something.”

Sam didn’t actually expect Sebastian to lay down with them, but after a few seconds of flexing his jaw, Sebastian shrugged and fell into a crouch, stretching out perpendicular to Sam.

“So it’s finally time?” Sebastian said. Sam watched him fold his hands carefully over his stomach.

“Yeah, I’m gonna try to get us studio time pretty soon, and Abigail needs ideas for the branding I guess?” Sam said, tossing his tennis ball again. “So we need a name.”

“Yeah, makes sense,” Sebastian said. He sounded…distracted.

“Are you okay dude?” Sam asked.

“Oh shit, was it your date with Samira?” Abigail propped herself up on her elbows. “How’d it go?”

Sebastian heaved a huge sigh, covering his face with his hands.

The bubbling in Sam’s stomach was back. That again…Sam wished again that he knew what it meant.

“That bad, huh?” Abigail said sympathetically.

“Her exact words were, ‘This date sucked, there won’t be a second one,’” Sebastian pronounced.

“Ouch,” Abigail said, wincing.

“She said that to your face?” Sam said, wonderingly.

“Yeah,” Sebastian groaned. “Fucking sucks. I don’t even…she’s different than I thought.”

“Different how?” Abigail asked.

“I don’t know, it’s like…not an act, what she does. It’s all…She means it.”

“Dude, I could have told you that,” Sam commented, which only made the bubbling in his guts worse.

“I wish you had,” Sebastian said, and then paused, letting his arms flop to the floor. “I wish I’d thought to ask, I guess.”

Huh. This was new from Sebastian. The vibe was…humbled. He was genuinely sorry, even if he wasn’t going to say it.

“Her costume was so cool though,” Abigail said, after a pause. “Did you see it, Sam?”

Sam had caught a glimpse. “Yeah, it fucking ruled.”

“It did,” Sebastian admitted. “Look, Sam, if you want to try and ask her out, I won’t stop you.”

Sam had just thrown the ball up and almost missed catching it. “…For real?”

“Yeah, you get her better than I do anyway,” Sebastian said.

“What about your crush on her?” Abigail asked.

“I’ll live,” Sebastian said shortly. “I’ll get over it.”

For the first time in several days, the ball of emotion in Sam’s chest started to dissolve. But wait— “I don’t think so, dude, I still don’t want to expose her to all my family shit.”

“Sam, that girl is fucking tough as nails,” Sebastian scoffed. “You think some shitty politics will be enough to scare her away?”

…Sam genuinely had not considered that.

The bubbling in his guts was getting worse.

“I don’t know,” he said finally. “I’ll have to think about it.”

“We’ve got a band to name in the meantime,” Abigail mercifully changed the subject.

Sam swallowed, packing all those emotions down for later. “Yeah, so…was that a no on Rocket Goose and the Laser Snakes?”

Abigail laughed. “Rocket Goose is almost good.”

“Rocket Goose sounds like a children’s band,” Sebastian countered.

“Oh no, that’s true,” Abigail said.

“Yeah, it kinda does,” Sam admitted. “You got anything, Seb?”

“What if…” Sebastian stretched luxuriously. “You write all your songs about Samira and won’t tell her, so…what if it was something like…Poetry. Private Poetry.”

“You guys are like, laser focused on making us a folk band, aren’t you?” Sam said, tossing the tennis ball a few times.

“Wouldn’t be very good SEO,” Abigail added. “Sorry, Sebastian.”

“I’m not good at this stuff,” he grumbled.

“Okay, maybe we’re doing this backwards,” Abigail proposed. “What is it that we want the band name to say about us? To represent? Like we’re not a folk band—what are we?”

“Rock?” Sebastian offered.

“Yeah, but that doesn’t mean anything,” Sam said. “I think we’re pretty solidly pop-punk.”

“Oh Yoba,” Sebastian groaned.

“Don’t throw shade, you like the way we sound,” Abigail shot back.

“No it’s—fucking pop-punk band names are all over the place. That doesn’t help us at all.”

Sam had to concede this point. “I guess…they’re all kinda edgy. But not blatantly edgy, like…avoiding normie stuff.”

“Right, and maybe they mean something but it’s a little hard to parse?” Abigail suggested. “That feels like it makes sense for us. What else?”

“Well, okay. Go with me on this.” Sam switched from tossing the ball up to passing it back and forth in his hands. “I don’t want to be the band that loses track of who they are, right? Like, sells out?”

“Of course not,” Sebastian said.

“So what if we had a name that reminded us of home?”

Sebastian scowled immediately, but Abigail frowned, drumming her fingers on her leg. “It’s…it’s not a bad idea. Like, branding-wise. And it’d be kind of nice, you know?”

“Why would that be nice?” Sebastian grumbled.

“This is home,” Abigail said. “I know you don’t like it, but it made us who we are. This band wouldn’t exist if we didn’t live here.”

“It’s a sad, strange little nothing town.” Sebastian’s tone was flat.

“It’s our sad, strange little nothing town,” Sam said, thinking inexplicably of Samira. “I just think…a band name needs to show something, doesn’t it? Like, mean something.”

Sebastian shrugged, which looked very silly with him laying on the ground. “So what are you thinking?”

“Stardew…Stardew Valley…” Abigail floated the words into the air like clouds. “Pelican Town…”

“Stardudes,” Sam posited, and his friends laughed. He smiled. “Uhh…something about stardrop fruit? Or should it focus on the valley?”

“Valley Girls?” Abigail suggested, giggling.

“That’s funny,” Sam chuckled.

“What about The Pelicans?” Sebastian said, quietly.

Both of the others considered this.

“The Beatles, the Byrds, the Monkees,” Abigail said thoughtfully.

“The Misfits,” Sam added. “The Ramones. The Kinks.”

“Is it appropriately esoteric? For a pop-punk band?” Sebastian wondered.

“It’s weird, in a fun way,” Abigail decided. “I like it.”

“I think I like it too,” Sam admitted. “Shit. The Pelicans.”

“The Pelicans,” repeated Abigail.

“Next up on the stage, the Pelicans,” Sebastian attempted. “Fuck. It’s a little bit perfect.”

Sam felt a grin spread across his face, exhilaration filling his chest up. “Hey. Guys. We’re a fucking band.”

“Let’s hear it for the Pelicans!” Abigail threw up her hands.

“What’s up Tokyo, we are the Pelicans!” Sam whooped.

Sebastian chuckled. “Tokyo?”

“Tell me you don’t want to go play in Tokyo,” Sam said, sitting up. “Okay, Pelicans. You wanna practice?”

“Let’s go!” Abigail hopped to her feet and offered a hand to Sebastian, who waved it away. “You got any new songs for us, Sam?”

“Not yet, I’m like, halfway through one,” Sam said, picking up his guitar and sliding the strap over his head. “It’s about us, actually.”

“Aww, not about Samira?” Abigail teased. “Man, I don’t know how you manage to write all these songs about her and not actually ask her out. Like, it can’t just be the family stuff holding you back.”

Sam shrugged, noncommittal, ignoring his guts boiling. “I can’t really explain.”

Sebastian took his place at the keyboard and examined him thoughtfully. “You always look sick when you’re talking like this.”

“I guess you do, don’t you?” Abigail said wonderingly, taking her seat at the drums. “Do you feel sick?”

Sam felt exposed, stared at by two people psychoanalyzing him. “A little? You’re making me nervous.”

“This isn’t a Darcy situation, is it?” Abigail asked. “Like, you like her despite all the cultural political stuff?”

“Nah, it’s…the more I learn about all that, the more I like her,” Sam said, shaking his head. “It’s the shit I used to think, the shit my father has done, the shit my mom might say. It’s—”

“Shame,” Sebastian interrupted, as if struck by a divine revelation.

Sam was struck still. Fuck.

It was shame. It was a lot of shame, sitting in his stomach like a simmering mass. Shit.

“Shame’s no good,” Abigail said, almost scolding him. “Like, guilt is okay because it makes you want to fix things and be better, but shame is just…paralysis.”

Sebastian nodded thoughtfully. “She might be right.”

Sam didn’t have the time or bandwidth to examine these thoughts. Maybe Abigail was right, but it was time to practice. “Is it too late to change our band name to Shame Paralysis?”

“Now that’s emo,” Abigail said, laughing. “Or is it goth? Sebastian?”

“Strikes me as metal, personally.” Sebastian shrugged. “The Pelicans is better.”

“It is better.” Sam tuned a couple of strings. He didn’t know what to do with this new piece of information. Maybe talk to Penny about it. Huh. Shame. “All right, let’s rock. Start with ‘Panic.’”

“You got it.” Sebastian stretched his hands out, and started to play.

Chapter Text

It had been a long autumn, and winter was starting to creep up on Watten Farm, which Samira was actually looking forward to. Winter was her favorite season, and there would be less work to do on the farm once she finished up the harvest. She’d even managed to get all the materials for Robin to fix up her house, and now her kitchen was functional and she had plenty of space, but it was all close enough that one big heater in the center of the house was enough to keep things nice and toasty.

Maybe it was that the winter had her in a good mood, but it was getting easier to swallow that Samira was, whether she liked it or not, fixing up the community center through some kind of ancient deal with fairies. More than once now, the offerings they asked for had been converted into an instant and beautiful renovation.

It was…stupid. It was stupid, right? Junimos??? Seriously?

But this town needed this community center. And if fairies were the way it was gonna happen, then…fuck, who was Samira to say no? Sure, she was getting better at building things, but that building needed serious reno, and apparently junimos were licensed contractors. So…fuck it. Magic.

“Fuck it, magic,” was the mood she was using to make herself do one of the more unhinged things she’d done lately. It didn’t make any fucking sense, but it felt…important.

Which was how she found herself slashing at slimes in the secret woods again for the millionth time. Annoying, but no big deal.

The woods were warmer than the rest of the forest. Maybe something about the way the trees were arranged held in heat, or maybe that little pond had a warm spring or something. Either way, Samira unzipped her spiky leather jacket for the first time outdoors in a week or two. Might be nice to slip in here occasionally if she got too sick of the cold. Go fishing maybe.

But today that was not her purpose.

She approached the statue of Old Master Cannoli with…well, a perfectly reasonable amount of hesitation, frankly, for someone who barely believed in magic. At least no one would see her doing this, if it didn’t work.

She slid her backpack off her shoulders and reached inside for the little ziplock of berries.

“Okay,” she said, opening the bag and popping one into her mouth idly. They were so fucking good. She’d been nervous watching them ripen, counting the days left in the growing season, but they were perfect just before the first frost. Samira set some aside for Maram and maybe her friends, collected the seeds from every single one she ate for planting next year, and then decided to do whatever this was going to be. She slipped the seed from this one out of her mouth and into her pocket before she began.

With intention, she sat down across from the statue, cross-legged like he was, and began to speak in Gotoro. “Old Master Cannoli. I am Samira. I was born in the Ferngill Republic, but my father and my mother’s parents are from far away.”

Maybe saying that was idiotic, since she was already speaking Gotoro, but this whole stupid magic thing called for…formality. Ceremony. Anyway, if the ghost of this old man couldn’t understand her words, her intentions would be clear enough in a moment.

“Your plaque says you seek the sweetest taste,” she went on. “I don’t know who you are. Maybe you are someone who traveled widely, and you already know what a sweet gem berry tastes like. Maybe you’ve never heard of them before today.” Samira swallowed, the taste of the berry still syrupy in her mouth. “But there is nothing sweeter than this. And that’s not just the nostalgia talking.” The word for nostalgia in Gotoro was closer to yearning or craving, but somehow that seemed fitting.

Carefully, she scooped the berries out of the bag in a slightly sticky handful and placed them on the dais between the statue’s feet.

“Um,” she said, because she couldn’t just leave it at that, could she? “Uh—enjoy, I guess—holy fuck—”

The statue’s eyes opened, glowing red. The berries…they disintegrated, the pieces floating up into the air like ash and vanishing, and a bright light flashed, momentarily blinding Samira—

And when she opened her eyes, blinking against the afterimage, a vine had grown that she hadn’t noticed before, and a palm-sized fruit laid over Old Master Cannoli’s shoulder—a fruit shaped like a five-pointed star.

“Holy shit,” she breathed. She’d switched back to English. The swears were more satisfying. Carefully, she reached out to touch the fruit, and it fell off the vine into her hand. It was shining and purple and smelled absolutely delicious.

She had to eat this, right? You didn’t refuse a gift from a magic guardian-type guy. Fuck. She looked it over front and back, rubbed it against her skull shirt—carefully, because it had about the weight and integrity of a tomato—and took a careful bite from the top left point.

The juice exploded in her mouth, almost warm, almost spiced, sweet and mellow and—

And she thought of laughing hand-in-hand with her cousin, following two more cousins through the darkened city streets, feeling free and light and loved.

She’d taken another bite before the memory faded, almost desperately, and now she thought of pulling a weed on the farm, bent over and sweating, only to have Moon jump on her back, causing laughter to bubble up as she said, “Moon, what the hell?”

Another bite, and this one was a surprise, singing “Tainted Love” in the windowsill of Sam’s house, surprised and laughing when he and Sebastian slapped their instruments before she sang run away…

Another bite. Her mom. Samira couldn’t have been older than Vincent, and her mom had been mad at her antics all day, but as she tucked Samira in for the night, she suddenly attacked her with tickles, and Samira giggled like mad and knew her mother loved her anyway…

Another, and it was Sam again, silly and damp and dejected after not finding her fishing pole in the river, shocked as she threw her arms around him on impulse and then wrapped her up, safe and snug, in a hug of his own…

Another, and it was the most recent time she brought something to the junimos, watching with breathless wonder as a room transformed from a mold-rotted abandoned space to a beautiful, fully equipped craft room, the kind Jodi or Emily would love…

Another, and it was Sam walking with her to these very woods, being honest with her and giving her the opportunity to do the same, whirling her out of harm’s way with the slimes…

The fruit tasted like laughter. It tasted like safety. It tasted, again and again, like the way Sam made her feel.

It tasted like home.

She realized she was crying at the same moment she realized there was no more fruit left. There had been no seeds that she could see—she desperately checked the vine, to see if she could replant it, but it had already withered black.

“Fuck,” she said through a sob, and thought about what she didn’t have, and might have, and was lucky enough to have, and she cried grateful tears.

Chapter Text

“All right, I think I got it working,” Abigail said, looking at the screen of the digital camera that reportedly, Sebastian’s stepdad used for high-quality pictures of specimens.

“How long is the timer?” Sam asked. He was trying to be chill about this part and it wasn’t working so far. The recording session last week had gone tremendously well—they were so well-practiced that it took them just over half the time Sam had budgeted for to get seven songs done, which was long for an EP, but the high of hearing themselves in high fidelity on that master track was enough to assuage any fears he had about his band’s skill. The Pelicans were fucking good.

Now, though, the stakes were high again. If the cover of the album they were selling at a potential gig—and Sam even had a lead on such a gig—didn’t look good, it would be enough to dissuade people from buying it. He and Abigail were in total agreement about this, and Sebastian, who’d offered to put together a website for them, was starting to come around.

“I told the timer to do twenty seconds,” Abigail said, hurrying around the camera’s tripod to where Sam and Sebastian were. “Fucking hell, it’s cold.”

They’d agreed on the beach. They hadn’t talked about what to wear or what the album cover should look like, and Sam was beginning to think that was a mistake.

“Okay, everyone look cool,” Abigail said, striking a slightly different cross-armed pose than before. Sam tried to match her energy, and Sebastian did the exact same thing he’d been doing, which was look slightly uncomfortable standing next to them.

It took far too long for the flash to go off, and then Abigail retrieved the camera. She clicked a few buttons and made a face.

“Is it bad?” Sam asked, already feeling himself cringing.

“I don’t even know how to fix this,” she said, taking the camera off the tripod and walking it back to them.

It was in fact bad. Lighting was weird. Framing could be cropped, maybe, but probably not to a square on an album that looked good. And they definitely didn’t look cool.

“What if we um…repositioned ourselves and the camera so the lighting was different?” Sebastian suggested half-heartedly. The vibes he was giving were incredibly uncomfortable. Sebastian didn’t like having his picture taken under circumstances with zero stakes—Sam could only imagine how he was feeling about this.

“The beach is slanted toward the water, it’d be crooked,” Abigail said. “And we wouldn’t have the ocean in the background.”

“We could build a little sand platform? Make it flat?” Sam offered, but everyone was so discouraged. It didn’t feel worth it.

“I don’t know,” Abigail sighed, handing the camera back to Sebastian so she could wrap her arms around herself. It was frigid and the breeze was biting, and she had opted for an outfit that looked like she was about to go play roller derby. “Maybe we could wait until the lighting changes or something. Or get some help.”

“Come here,” Sebastian said to Abigail, spreading out half his jacket to put around her shoulders. She hesitated for just a second before huddling into the crook of his arm. He pressed the jacket against her shoulder to keep it from catching the breeze and went on, like this was not a pretty earthshaking show of compassion for him, “Who’s going to help us, though? Nobody takes this band stuff seriously.”

Some movement up the beach—Sam looked up and saw Samira, in a sharp black slicker with her fishing pole over her shoulder. She’d spotted them and was watching them curiously.

Sam felt like his mom was in his ear, urging him to act normal, even though he felt like treating his interactions with Samira with the same care he’d show a precious porcelain sculpture after the shame reveal. Slide on the persona. This was normal. “Yo, Samira!” he called.

“Ah, fuck,” Sebastian sighed.

Abigail patted his hand awkwardly. “It’ll be fine. She’ll help.”

Samira wandered over, examining the tripod, before addressing Sam, “What’s up?”

“Can you take a picture of us?” Abigail pleaded, clasping her hands in front of her. “We’re trying to get a good one for the album cover.”

“You guys have an album now?” She addressed this to Sam.

“We have an EP, yeah!” Sam couldn’t curb his enthusiasm. “Dude it sounds amazing, it turned out so perfect.”

“We’re the Pelicans, did we tell you?” added Abigail.

“We just need an album cover,” Sebastian muttered, holding out the camera in her general direction without making eye contact.

Samira threw up her hands. “Okay um—look, I want to help, but I’m really bad at taking pictures. Like…really bad.”

“How bad can you be?” Abigail teased, but Samira just shook her head.

“Watch,” she said, reaching into her pocket for her phone. “I’ll show you, okay?” She flicked her camera open, held it out in front of her to take a selfie. “I’m in frame, okay. I’m looking at my own picture. Yeah?”

Sam leaned around to check. “Yeah…”

“Right.” She flipped off the camera with a smile, hit the screen with her thumb, and turned the screen around for them all to see.

Sam squinted at the screen, and he could feel his friends doing the same. “Is that…how’d you get that seagull? I didn’t even see it.”

“So is that your hair, or…” Abigail waved her finger over a black smudge on one corner.

“This would almost make a good abstract album cover, if it weren’t for the camera quality,” Sebastian said thoughtfully.

“Yeah, so, no. I won’t take a picture. You don’t want that.” She put away her phone. “Have you been trying to take it yourself?”

“That’s the idea,” Sam said, shrugging. “It wasn’t really working.”

She examined the three of them with a wrinkled brow. “You don’t even look like you belong to the same band.”

This was unfortunately true. Abigail’s fishnets and tight shorts and tank top were made up of about six more colors than Sebastian’s black skinny jeans and black sweater and black pleather jacket—and Sam wasn’t wearing all black, but Abigail’s colors were neons, whereas he’d picked out a vintage yellow Ramones shirt that was so faded by now that you couldn’t quite make out the band name, and put his usual jean jacket over it.

“We didn’t exactly think this through, I guess,” Abigail said, laughing in such a way that suggested she was trying not to cry. “I thought I was starting to get a hang of the marketing thing.”

“Maybe we can like…I don’t know, get some art for the album? Instead of a photo?” Sam suggested.

“We need something for the website,” Sebastian objected. “Something with our faces.”

“Not if we don’t match,” Abigail added in.

“Okay, this might be stupid,” Samira began.

Sam sighed in relief. This was getting pretty circular and he was starting to feel very anxious about it. “Please. We need some kind of help.”

“Well—look, um, you know Emily?” Samira shrugged, as if apologizing in advance. She was putting out a very strange vibe today, unusual for her—almost serene. At peace. She’d never had that vibe before, not that Sam could remember. “She’s really good at fashion stuff. Like, really good. I think she could help you look a little more cohesive for a photo. And like…isn’t her sister a photographer or something?”

Sam frowned. “I guess Haley is a photographer.”

“She’d want to be hired,” Abigail said, extending a finger from her shared jacket cave. “Do we have the cash for that?”

“We did spend less on the recording time than I expected,” Sam offered. “Does she even take that kind of pictures?”

“I guess we could ask,” Abigail proffered.

Sebastian, meanwhile, had been turning a little bit pink. Sam gave him a pointed look.

Finally, Sebastian heaved a huge sigh and dug his phone out of his pocket, handing the digital camera off to Abigail. “Let’s see if she changed her number.”

Samira shot a quizzical glance at Sam. Sam explained, “They dated for a minute in high school.”

“They did?” Samira looked both shocked and delighted.

“For like, literally two days,” Sam elaborated.

“Oh Yoba, I forgot about that!” Abigail squealed.

“Will you shut the fuck up?” Sebastian demanded, holding the phone out in front of him, the tinny speakerphone ringing. “It was fully seven years ago. I don’t even know if this number will be her.”

“She’s one year younger than Seb, two years older than me,” Sam went on. “I guess it was kind of like, a way to make her parents angry?”

“Shut up!” Sebastian snapped, and just in time, as the ringtone was cut abruptly in half. The four of them held their breath, waiting for the voice to answer.

“Well this ought to be good,” came Haley’s signature preppy faux-politeness. “What brings you to my incoming calls today?”

“Hey, Haley,” Sebastian began, all cool. Sam, for one, was impressed. “I know this is out of the blue, but I had a question for you.”

“You’d better ask it quick,” she shot back.

“Do you have any open slots for photoshoot gigs?” Sebastian laid out the sentence quickly and neatly.

The line was silent for almost long enough that Sam wondered if she’d hung up before she said, “What kind of photoshoot?”

“The band I’m in—we need some good pictures. Album art, and some stuff for our website, too. Stuff we can’t just use selfies for or whatever. You know? And like, I’ve seen your insta, I know you can do this kind of stuff.”

“Your band. Your thing with Sam.”

“And Abigail,” Sebastian added. Fuck, he was smooth. “I was thinking we’d like to hire Emily too. Samira says she’s good at styling and stuff.”

“Why are you telling me that?”

“Because I don’t have her number, I have yours,” Sebastian said dryly.

The line went quiet again. Sam glanced over at Samira, who met his eyes. She smiled at him, relishing this moment of tension and excitement with him. Shit, he loved her smile.

“Do you have actual music?” Haley said, eventually.

“Yeah.” Sebastian grinned, just for a second. Victory. “Do you prefer a CD or a link?”

“A CD, I guess, because it’s 2012 apparently. You can put it through the mail slot.”

“So…that’s a yes?” Sebastian hazarded.

“Only because it’s something interesting for once,” Haley sniffed. “I’ll have Emily text you. Watch for a message from a local number with too many emojis. Are you and the band free in two days?”

Sebastian looked up to confirm—Abigail was already nodding vigorously, and Sam threw his friend a double thumbs-up.

“Yeah, sounds good,” Sebastian said, chill as ever. “Thanks.”

“We’ll talk price point once I hear the music,” she said dismissively. “Bye.”

The phone beeped to indicate her absence, and Sam immediately pumped his fist. “Fuck yeah!”

“Fuck yes,” Sebastian agreed, looking very relieved. “I’ll get her one of our copies on the way home.”

“I had no idea she had a photography insta!” Abigail declared. “I have to follow her.”

“Samira, you’re a genius,” Sam said, turning toward her. “Thank you.”

“I didn’t do much,” she said, with another shrug. “I’m glad it worked out.”

“Now I need to go home, because I’m fucking freezing,” Abigail declared, slipping out of Sebastian’s grip and giving his shoulder a quick squeeze. “Bye. Thank you. Bye Samira!”

She hurried across the beach toward the bridge.

Sebastian hovered for a moment, looking like he had something to say, even turning with his mouth open to Samira…

…Before instead saying, “Oh, the fucking camera!” And nearly sprinting after Abigail.

So Sam found himself alone on the beach with Samira, grateful. “Dude, how are you friends with Emily? That’s so smart.”

“Oh, um…after you…you know, after I nearly died and you saved my life—”

“What, that?” Sam quipped quickly, trying to dispel his own discomfort with that factoid. “That was nothing.”

“Okay whatever,” Samira said, rolling her eyes. “But after that I realized I had to start dressing for the weather, and I didn’t know how to do that. Emily helped.”

So Emily was why Samira had looked so fucking hot all summer? “Damn. She didn’t strike me as the goth type.”

“She’s not, but she’s good at pulling out folks’ style and emphasizing it,” Samira said. “You won’t be disappointed.”

Sam was about as far from disappointed as he’d been in forever. He was elated. “Are you kidding? Do you know how many problems you just solved? Like, a million of them.”

Samira smiled. “Well, good, I guess.”

Sam didn’t know how to ask what he wanted to ask. What’s got you in such a good mood? seemed overly confrontational. He settled on, “Something’s different about you today.”

“Oh, um, yesterday was…” She trailed off. Holding something back, just for a moment. “I don’t know. Fuck it. Do you believe in magic?”

Sam frowned. “Like…like Houdini shit or like Solarian Chronicles shit?”

“You know what, never mind.” She waved a hand. “Something weird happened yesterday. Something…hard to describe. But good. I guess. I’m in a weird mood. Thinking a lot about…community.”

“Oh.” Sam didn’t understand at all. “Good,” he offered.

“Yeah.” Samira gestured with one hand toward the docks. “Anyway, I’m going to go fishing. Um. See you later?”

“Yeah, yeah, of course,” he assured her, and then watched her leave, waving as she went. Maybe he should…

Maybe he should have done something to show her how much it mattered that she had helped. Said something. He wasn’t any good with words normally, unless they were lyrics.

A strange partial plan began to form in his mind.

*

“But are we sure about the eyeliner?” Sam eyeballed the pencil in Emily’s hand warily. “Like, are we sure?”

“Of course you don’t have to wear it if you don’t want to,” Emily assured him. “But everyone looks nice in eyeliner. And it’ll bring your band look together so nicely.”

“Dude, just do it, it’ll be hot,” Abigail said, putting on lipstick that was a very dark purple in a compact mirror.

Sam hesitated. The fashion portion of today’s photoshoot was going really well up to this point—they were at Emily and Haley’s house, and Emily had helped them put together ensembles that worked together out of their own clothes with some additional pieces. Overall they were wearing black, but each of them had a pop of color too: an electric purple shirt amongst enough layers to keep warm for Abigail, a green-and-black-striped scarf for Sebastian that Sam could tell he lowkey loved, and a bright blue graphic tee for Sam that he’d forgotten he had, portraying a werewolf playing guitar, under a black bomber jacket that was actually really nice. They looked good. Samira had been right about not being disappointed.

But the application of a pointy stick to the eye made Sam very nervous, and he’d never worn makeup of any kind before. He held up his hands. “Look, Emily, I know you’re a nice person, but it does kind of freak me out that you want to get that thing so close to my eyeballs.”

“Oh well I don’t have to be the one to do it!” she said, putting the pencil in more of a defensive position. “Abigail, maybe you could—”

“Oo, gonna stop you right there,” Abigail said hastily. “I only know how to put makeup on my own face.”

“I can do it,” Sebastian said suddenly. He had been standing off to side watching, since his look was almost complete before the scarf.

Sam paused. That was…way out of character. “You?”

“Yeah, if you want,” Sebastian said, with a casualness that didn’t even seem to have anything underneath. Huh.

“I…guess that’d be okay,” Sam conceded. He trusted Sebastian more around his face, anyway. “Is it going to be as thick as yours?”

“Nah,” Sebastian said, accepting the eyeliner pencil from Emily. “Here, sit down.”

Sam took a seat in one of the chairs Emily had dragged in from the dining room, watching Sebastian warily. “I mean it, I’m like…makeup’s not my thing, you know? Go easy.”

“Sure, yeah,” Sebastian said, examining the point of the pencil carefully. “How do you feel about KISS?”

“C’mon,” Sam pleaded, and Sebastian snorted.

“It’ll be chill, I promise,” he said, bracing Sam’s head with a hand around the forehead. “Close your eyes.”

Sam tried not to scrunch his eyes shut. It was a really weird feeling, the pencil rolling across his eyelid. “How come you can do makeup on other people but Abigail can’t?”

“Practice,” Sebastian muttered. “I used to do this for Maru sometimes. Before she learned.”

“You did?” Abigail asked.

“Fucking ages ago,” he said, switching eyes. It really hadn’t taken that much time after all.

“Yoba bless the emos,” Abigail commented.

“Thank you,” Sebastian said seriously. “You’ve got really long eyelashes.”

“Do I?” Sam was fighting for his life trying not to let his eyes twitch. “I never noticed.”

“It’s cuz they’re light-colored, you don’t notice,” Abigail said. “Now if we got you some mascara—”

“I think that’d be too much,” Sebastian interrupted. “Okay, open your eyes and look up.”

“Fuck, that’s terrifying,” Sam murmured, and did as he was asked. Sebastian was staring right into his eyes, concentrating hard on the bottom eyelid. “What if I rub my eye?”

“I would advise you not to,” Sebastian said. “Why are you so anxious about this anyway?”

The question was also out of character for Sebastian, seeing as Emily was right there. And it gave Sam pause. There was something…grotesque about wearing makeup, buried in the back of Sam’s skull. What was that about?

“I guess I’m worried about what people might think?” Sam attempted. Not just people, though, his parents in particular, and people like them. His mother had some offhand words about men in makeup that Sam didn’t care to repeat.

“The people who matter won’t care,” Abigail supplied.

Sam wished that was true.

“Done,” Sebastian said, looking into Sam’s eyes to examine his work.

“Now kiss,” Abigail giggled.

“Fuck off,” Sebastian said sharply, handing the pencil back to Emily. “Emily, is that good?”

“Perfect work!” Emily declared. “I ought to let you do mine next.” She passed a hand mirror to Sam. “What do you think?”

Sam took the mirror and froze. “Holy shit.”

“It looks good, right?” Abigail enthused.

“Everyone looks good in a little eyeliner,” Emily said wisely.

“Fuck yes,” Sam whispered. He looked extremely powerful.

“I can’t believe this is the first time I’ve ever seen you in makeup,” Haley added, entering the room from her bedroom with a clipboard and a camera bag. “It suits you.”

That felt…complicated. And not just because Sam was fairly sure it was a back-handed compliment. “Thanks?”

“Okay, Pelicans, here’s the deal,” she said authoritatively, ignoring Sam. “We are looking at a wide-shot for the album cover, three or four group shots, and then some individual shots as well. It should take less than two hours, if—” she punctuated this with her hands on her hips— “you do what I say. Understand?”

“Why a wide shot for the album cover?” Sebastian said, arms crossed.

“My vision is to have it be the three of you chasing seagulls,” Haley sniffed. “If you’re willing to look a little silly, Sebastian.”

It was a gauntlet thrown down; Sam and Abigail exchanged a look.

Sebastian flexed his jaw a couple times before intoning, “There’s nothing silly about chasing seagulls, Haley.”

“It sounds perfect!” Abigail jumped to her feet.

“If it’s cool with Sam?” Sebastian said.

It wasn’t just cool—it was so perfect that Sam could picture the album cover. It was as good as sitting in his hand. “I like it a lot,” Sam said, standing. “Should we get started?”

“Oo, I can’t wait to see the finished pictures!” Emily gave a couple little excited hops. “You all have fun now!”

“Let’s hurry before we lose the light, metalheads!” Haley said, opening the front door.

“We’re not metalheads!” Abigail protested, following her.

Sam lagged a little behind, grabbing onto Sebastian’s arm to get his attention. “Hey. You’ve been really chill the last few days.”

Sebastian raised an eyebrow. “And you’ve been really jumpy, what’s your point?”

“I guess…what’s up, what’s the deal?”

Sebastian drifted toward the beach, flexing his jaw, and Sam fell into step beside him, waiting for an answer.

“On our date, I told Samira she could drop the act with me,” Sebastian said finally.

“What act?” Sam asked.

“I mean, that’s kind of the thing, she doesn’t have one,” Sebastian said. “I do. And it’s a lot of work and…and I’m tired. So maybe…maybe I care too much what other people think.” He shrugged.

“That’s really mature and shit, Seb,” Sam said, struck by a sudden pang of pride for his friend.

Sebastian shrugged. “On a related note, dude, you don’t need to worry about the makeup. You’re not a girl or a pussy or whatever for wearing it.”

And this was true for most of humanity, sure, but Sam was almost certain it didn’t quite apply to him. The sentence that tumbled out of his mouth to explain this was, “Try telling that to my dad.”

“He’s not here,” Sebastian said simply. “And anyway, you look good.”

“You think so?”

“Yeah.”

He did feel very powerful. “I kinda feel like getting into a fight with this on. Is that why you’re like this?”

“Like what?” Sebastian scoffed.

“Like, don’t mess with me, I’m dangerous.” He cracked his knuckles for effect. “Oh shit, I bet this is what Samira feels like all the time!”

“Why would she want that?” Sebastian muttered.

Sam knew why.

Chapter Text

“So it’s a two-hour set, playing for a bar, and we get two free drinks in addition to the band fee,” Sam summarized. He was pacing in his room, speakerphone on, with Abigail and Sebastian looking on intently.

“And whatever tips the audience decides to give you,” said Rusty, the man who owned the aforementioned bar. “I wouldn’t count on much from that though, they’re not big tippers.”

“And it’s cool if we do covers?” Sam asked.

“Hell, kid, this crowd would probably prefer that.”

“Okay, and what if one member of our band is under twenty-one?”

“Then his free drink will be coke, I guess. Just don’t get me arrested and we’ll be fine.”

Sam checked in with Sebastian—nodding, thoughtful—and Abigail—grinning hugely—and said, “Then we’re in. What gear do we need to bring?”

“I’ll send ya the list. See you on Friday.”

“Great, see you then!” Sam said, waiting to hear a response, and when none arrived, he tapped the button to hang up.

And the three of them exploded.

“Fuck yeah!” Sebastian shouted.

“It’s happening! It’s real! A whole gig!” Abigail screeched.

Sam just roared victoriously.

“What the hell is our set going to be!” Abigail demanded. “I know it’s a dive bar, but what kind of dive bar?”

“When I scoped it out, it seemed pretty grunge,” Sebastian said. “Maybe classic rock. Definitely lower energy. We can play ‘Closer Now’ for sure, and maybe ‘Outcast Hero’ depending on the crowd.”

“I got some ideas,” Sam said, which was a lie only because he had basically the whole set planned out.

“Oh hey, if the crowd ends up being into it, can we play that fernGhouls song you showed me?” Abigail asked.

“Which one?” Sam asked. fernGhouls was a political punk band out of Zuzu City that Sam was absolutely smitten with—all girl queer themed angry punk music. Sam tried to keep on top of as many local bands as he could, just to get an idea of the scene, but fernGhouls was an easy favorite.

“‘Forbidden,’ it’s such a perfect song,” Abigail gushed. “We’d need to tweak the key obviously, but it would be a really nice tribute. And it slaps.”

“I don’t even think we’d need to change the key that much, it’s not technically outside your range,” Sebastian said. “Maybe a little higher than is comfortable.”

“Hang on, I can’t sing that,” Sam protested. “That’s explicitly about lesbians. Like how society makes it hard to be gay.”

“What’s the problem?” Sebastian raised an eyebrow.

“If I don’t change the pronouns then it just sounds like a straight love song,” Sam said. “And if I do—I mean, that’s me talking about an experience none of us really have. Like I know you’re bi, Abigail, but I’d have to be the one singing it.”

“See I think it is an experience you have,” Abigail said, leveling a finger at him. “Because remind me again why you won’t ask Samira out?”

Sam hesitated. There were some…parallels to the experience. “…I don’t know, I’d have to think about it.”

“It’s kind of high energy for what our set should be anyway,” Sebastian posited.

“Should we invite people?” Abigail asked, abruptly changing the subject.

Sam and Sebastian exchanged a look—Sebastian cringing, Sam anxious—and both said together, “No.”

“Not the first gig,” Sebastian said. “Not in a dive bar.”

“What if one of us secretly has horrible stage fright or something?” Sam said, lifting his hands helplessly. “What if somebody faints onstage or none of our equipment works? Or we sound terrible?”

“Okay, okay, not the first gig,” Abigail said, waving the idea away. “So this is like a practice run?”

“Yeah, it’s a practice run,” Sebastian repeated.

“Okay, cool.” That dissolved Sam’s anxiety some. “Let’s talk setlist.”

*

“You’ve been a lovely audience, good night!” Sam told the impassive bar patrons, and switched off his mic. Sam had been so dead-set on keeping his expectations low for this that it had ended up being fine, actually. People even clapped occasionally. They had been a little higher energy than Sebastian had predicted, so they’d squeezed a couple extra originals into the set and rearranged some vibes on the fly. And as far as Sam could tell, they had sounded good. Which was great, because Sam could tell this adrenaline crash was going to be terrific. Sleep on the way home from the bar terrific. Good thing Abigail was the one driving Pierre’s borrowed van, full of their band equipment rather than vegetables.

“I’ll get drinks if you want,” Sebastian volunteered, stretching.

“We’ll start cleaning up then!” Abigail said, jumping up from the borrowed drumset. “I’ll put these back like I found them.”

“Cool,” Sam said, already feeling the weariness setting in. Just clean up, have a beer, then he could nap, and maybe unpack all of the dozens of moments that made up this evening. His brain was going too fast to think about all that now. Sam picked up the mic cord and started wrapping it around his hand and elbow, and then paused. Was this cord Rusty’s or theirs?

“That one’s Rusty’s,” said a voice from the foot of the stage. There was a woman there that Sam had noticed in the crowd, the one member of their audience who seemed to be listening intently. She was about thirty and had at least one side of her head shaved—actually, now that he was looking, it looked like she had a long mohawk, swept to one side. She also had several extremely cool piercings that made Sam wonder if he should get some too. “He always marks his cords with yellow tape.”

Sam checked, and sure enough, there was a ring of yellow tape right where the cord split into the XLR connectors. “Oh, good looking out, thanks.”

“It was a really good show,” she added, as he finished rolling up the cord.

Sam grinned and set down the cord, and then hopped off the stage so he could talk to her face-to-face. “Thank you! Thanks for actually listening.”

“Bar gigs are always like this,” she assured him.

“Are you like, in the scene?”

“Yeah, I’ve been around,” she said casually. “I’d never heard of you guys, though. Are you from out of town?”

“A little, but straight up, this is our first gig,” Sam admitted. “It means a lot that you think it was good.”

“That was your first gig?” the woman said, eyebrow raised. “Damn, Pelicans. I’m Maddy.”

Sam extended a hand, which she shook. “Sam.” A neuron fired in his brain, a connection made—oh shit. “You’re not…you’re not Maddy Valdez, are you?”

She laughed. “Shit, I’ve been spotted.”

“Holy fuck, I love fernGhouls!” Sam said, hands floating up by his head unbidden. “You gotta be kidding me that Maddy from fernGhouls is at our first gig!”

“Say that again?” Abigail demanded, popping up on the stage. “Sebastian, did you hear that?”

“Hear what?” Sebastian approached from the other side, handing a beer off to Sam and shifting another cup first to one hand and then to Abigail on the stage.

“This is Maddy from fernGhouls, dude!” The adrenaline was back and Sam was buzzing again. “This is Sebastian and that’s Abigail. Holy shit.”

“Fuck,” Sebastian said, taken aback.

“It is amazing to meet you,” Abigail enthused. “I love your septum ring.”

“Thanks,” Maddy laughed. “You guys know how to make a bitch feel welcome. Okay but since you know who I am…can I ask what the fuck was up with you doing ‘Forbidden?’ You know it’s about being a lesbian, right?”

Sam’s stomach sank. “Abigail I fucking told you we shouldn’t do that one.”

“Okay, but Maddy.” Abigail dropped to sit on the stage cross-legged, almost eye-level with them. “Sam is in love with a girl who’s Gotoro.”

“I’m not—in love is kinda strong—” Sam sputtered.

“No it isn’t,” Sebastian said, dropping the comment like a stone.

“Huh.” Maddy considered this. “Nuance. Interesting. Well, I’d tell you to write your own song, but I think you did. Did I hear like…four originals in there?”

“Yeah, that’s all Sam,” Sebastian said, nudging him with his elbow. Sam had never loved his friend more. It helped sweep aside some of the bubbles of shame.

Maddy grinned. “Okay, so—so I might have an opportunity for you. I have to check with the rest of the band, but I’ve already sent them the link to your EP and I’m confident they’ll say yes.”

“What kind of opportunity?” Sam said, trying to be very serious and professional.

“We’re in this festival in a couple weeks, right, just kind of a little thing focusing on local bands,” Maddy said.

“Oh yeah, there’s like a craft fair and ice skating and a drag show and stuff,” Abigail supplied.

“I heard about that, yeah,” Sam said. “I was thinking of going.”

“Right, yeah, so our opener got arrested,” Maddy said.

“Therapin got arrested?” Abigail demanded.

“Two out of three of them did,” Maddy said, shrugging. “Drug charges. Ironic, right?”

“Pretty fucking ironic,” Sebastian agreed. “What’s that got to do with us?”

“They’re not going to be out in time for the festival, and even if they were, they’re having a huge fight right now, like talking about breaking up,” Maddy went on. “So like, do you want to open for us instead? I actually came here to scout, because anyone else we were going to ask already has a spot in the festival or is out of town. I thought it was a long shot, but…I found you guys.”

“You want us to open for you?” Sam said, barely even able to use his voice anymore. “Fucking…us?”

“It’s a one-time thing, but it’ll be good to introduce you to folks,” Maddy said. “You got merch?”

“We got CDs,” Abigail said. “And oh! I bet Haley would do some prints for us!”

“Perfect, you’re all prepared,” Maddy said. “What do you think?”

Could this even be happening? Sam was nodding before he even knew his answer. “Yes. Like—fuck, yes, of course—yes, right?”

“Are you shitting me, of course yes,” Sebastian said, nearly spilling his beer.

“Oh my Yoba, we are going to be so in,” Abigail said, throwing up her hands.

“You need our number or—or something, right?” Sam fumbled in his pockets for paper or a pen—

“Here’s my number, I do most of the business stuff for us,” Abigail said, taking an honest-to-Yoba business card out of her bra. “It’s got our band email on there too, and our website.”

“The website isn’t up yet, but it will be like, tomorrow,” Sebastian added.

Maddy shot a smile to Sam. “Your band’s on top of things.”

“They really are.” Sam’s chest felt like it was swelling. “Should we—shit, should we invite people?”

“Hey, do it! It’s a free festival and I’d love to pack the house.” She winked. “I’ll see you around, Pelicans.”

Maddy sashayed away, waving over her shoulder. The three of them waited until she was out of earshot before, in beautiful synchrony, declaring, “Holy shit!”

“We are the luckiest motherfuckers in the universe!” Abigail squeaked. “Oh my Yoba.”

“We are opening for fernGhouls, dude, are you freaking out or what?” Sebastian demanded, shaking Sam’s shoulder.

Sam was absolutely freaking out. “Should I get an eyebrow ring? That looks fucking sick.”

“Maybe!” Abigail declared. “We should probably clean up first though.”

“When the hell in this process do we get roadies?” Sebastian asked, hopping up beside Abigail onto the stage.

“Definitely not our first gig,” Sam laughed. “We’ll find out if it’s our second one.”

Another element of Sam’s little secret plan fell into place.

Chapter Text

The real problem with community, Samira thought, limping back from the mines on a rather beautiful winter evening, was that it never was there when she needed it. Like now, for example. She knew who to go to in town if she needed a detailed explanation of metallurgy or some chicken breeding advice or even a sculpture. But if she needed someone to help her carry a backpack full of precious stones and metals home when she was already exhausted and had almost certainly pulled a muscle in her back, the community wasn’t going to know about it unless she like…texted somebody and waited for them to show up. And she wasn’t going to do that. That would be mortifying.

Each step was a struggle. She’d shifted most of the weight of her backpack to the side that wasn’t hurting, but supporting that much weight at all kind of hurt. It was a long way back to the farm.

Why couldn’t community just read her mind and show up?

“Samira!”

Ah. Shit.

Sam was circling the lakeshore toward her, beaming ray of good vibes that he was, waving. Yoba damn it all to hell, community had read her mind and showed up and that, it turned out, was also mortifying. Not least because along with the blush on her face she felt, deep in her chest, that familiar warmth of home. Fuck you, Old Master Cannoli.

“Hi,” she called back, attempting to meet him halfway with any kind of speed and failing. “Ow.”

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” she said, regretting it as soon as she said it. Why couldn’t she fucking ask for help? “What are you doing here?”

“Uh…looking for you actually.” He rubbed the back of his head, like always did when he was sheepish. “I wanted to ask you something. Uh…are you heading home? Can I walk with you?”

“Sure.” She’d like nothing more, actually. She took a few more steps before the pain kicked up again, making her gasp.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Sam looked downright alarmed.

She squeezed her eyes shut, trying not to cry. Fuck, that hurt. “Um. I will be. I guess.” Maru said community wasn’t optional. Maru said Samira didn’t get to do this alone, but that she also didn’t have to. “I think I pulled a muscle or something, I’m just…the backpack is heavy.”

“I can carry it,” Sam said, with earnest sincerity that made her insides feel like pudding. “If you want.”

She slid it off her shoulder, instantly reducing the pain in her back, and Sam scooped it up without hesitation. “Shit, you weren’t kidding. What’s in this?”

“It’s rocks,” she sighed. “Thank you. Shit.”

Samira’s back still hurt, but movement was much easier now, so now they kept a steady pace. Sam was wearing a proper coat, but even so, she felt the warmth of him walking beside her. She snuck a glance at him; the sunset was making him look entirely gold. Fuck. Also…

“Did you paint your nails?” she asked.

“Oh, yeah.” He glanced down at his hand, resting on the strap of the backpack. His nails were a clean blue, the blue of a computer bluescreen or a deep summer sky. “I…it was for the band. What do you think?”

There was no reasonable way to tell him that she found boys with painted nails stupidly attractive. “I like it.”

He frowned into the air in front of him, thinking.

“What do you think of it?” Samira prompted.

Sam ran his hand through his hair, taking a long slow breath. “Uh…I do like it. Like, it’s fun. I’m just thinking about what my dad would say.”

“What would he say?” Samira asked quietly. She couldn’t say she had a very high opinion of this specter in Sam’s life, and she had a feeling even that was about to tarnish.

He shrugged. “One time I cried when he left, and he told me that sort of thing wasn’t what he wanted out of the man of the house while he was away.”

Oh, so typical sexist bullshit. “How old were you?”

“I don’t know, fifteen maybe?” Sam held up a hand, looking at his nails in the golden light. “I don’t think he’d get it.”

Samira tried not to show how angry that made her. “Well maybe he should try it. He deserves to feel pretty too.”

Sam laughed, a surprised laugh. “Shit, that’d be funny.”

She smiled, pleased by this. “Honestly, though, it looks great. It suits you.”

“Maybe I’m a makeup guy,” Sam mused. “Should take some cues from Sebastian or something.”

Samira tried not to say fuck yes please and managed restrain herself. Like he was already very cute, right, but if he was going to adopt looks that catered to her specifically… The effort made the silence stretch out for just a little too long.

“What is it you wanted to ask me?” she said finally.

“Oh right!” He spun around so he was walking backwards. “Do you want to hear us play? We’ve got this spot in this festival—and the festival itself should be fun, but I know you’re busy on the farm and everything, so if you just want to see us and fernGhouls—right, we’re opening for fernGhouls, is that not so sick?”

“Who’s fernGhouls?” was the first thing her brain supplied her to say.

“They’re this group out of Zuzu City, they’re fucking great—we actually met their lead guitarist, but that’s not important—anyway, you should come.”

“You came pretty far out of your way to invite me,” Samira said lightly, because the significance of this fact was getting her hopes up and she felt the need to dash those hopes as soon as possible.

“You’re basically an honorary member of the band,” Sam said, falling into step beside her. “Without you there’s no Abigail, we wouldn’t have pinned down our sound, the songwriting is…okay you don’t know this part, but you’ve even helped with the songwriting. Like, we have a whole EP because of you. And the album cover, too. So it’s like…you have to come.”

Oh. Not the response she was hoping for. Then again, the response she was hoping for was something like, Please come because I’ve always loved you, do you want to go make out, which was not going to happen. He didn’t feel that way about her. The response that actual Sam had said with his actual mouth though…that was community, coming back to her. It was…actually, it was right here when she needed it.

“I mean, obviously I’m coming, since I’m apparently the power behind the Pelicans,” she said, and was delighted when Sam grinned. “Side note, ‘The Power Behind the Pelicans’ would probably be a really good basketball documentary.”

“Holy shit, it would,” Sam laughed. “I hope your back is better before then.”

“I think I just need ice and sleep or something, but fuck.” She stretched a little to the side and then flinched. “Ow, okay, not doing that.”

“You work harder than anyone I know,” Sam commented.

“I don’t think I work harder than Willy. That dude is always either fishing or selling fish.”

“I don’t know dude, how long were you in the mines today?”

Samira tried to think. She’d headed out as soon as her chores at home were done. “I don’t know. What is time, even?”

Sam snorted. “For real though. I feel like when I get a really good run on a song or something, it’s the whole day.”

“I just wanted to make sure I got everything I could get.” The museum was so close to being really nice. She wanted to do this for Gunther, and for Pelican Town.

“What were you after?” Sam asked, as they turned the corner along the fencing that led into her gate.

“I told you.” Samira unlatched her gate and pushed it open for Sam. “Rocks.”

“I thought you were kidding,” Sam said, hefting the backpack again and following her inside. “Can I see?”

“Yeah, sure.”

The two of them made their way up to the porch. Moon was sitting up there already, and watched them approach with his pupils nearly slits in his big yellow eyes.

“Hi Moon,” Sam said, offering a closed fist to him to sniff. The couple of times Sam had been to the farm before, Moon had taken a liking to Sam; today he inspected Sam’s hand briefly before bumping his little face against it.

Cats really were good judges of character, Samira thought, easing herself down to the steps of the porch carefully. Sam gave Moon’s head a scritch and sat down beside her, putting the backpack between them. Samira flipped it open.

“Woah.” Sam took an unpolished ruby out of the top of the bag; it did just look like a shard of rock at the moment, but the red sheen through the dirt was unmistakable. “What is this?”

“I think it’s a ruby?” She took another one out of the bag. “They’re less valuable when they’re not cut, but…like this is how I’m affording stuff. The crops make most of the money, but if I want extra stuff, like redoing the house stuff…it’s the mines.”

“Is it worth it if it throws out your back?” Sam wondered, putting the ruby back.

Samira considered this. “I don’t know. Probably not, but it’s not like…it’s not like I have folks depending on me back home. If I have to take a few days to recover, that could be worse.”

Sam’s brow wrinkled with concern at this. “Samira, it’s not like no one would care if you got hurt. Plenty of folks would care.”

“I guess that’s what community means,” Samira said, shrugging.

Sam looked away from her abruptly, out over the farm. “Sure. Community.”

Weird reaction. He had been kind of jumpy lately, reacting to her with forceful enthusiasm or strange nervousness that she didn’t understand. She was starting to wonder just how anxious Sam really was. Maybe all the band stuff was getting to him.

“How is it that I helped with your songwriting?” Samira blurted out, at exactly the wrong time if Sam was in fact feeling anxious about band stuff. Idiot.

But he actually grinned and looked back to her. “I’m gonna say…you need to come and hear for yourself.”

“Uh okay, cryptic,” she said, and he chuckled. “Fine, I’ll wait. Even though waiting is the worst.”

“Yoba, it’s the fucking pits, right?” Sam agreed, taking another rock out of the backpack. “Oh man—what’s this one?”

The palm-sized rock was striped, gold and orange and brown. It wasn’t polished either, but this particular specimen had broken off in such a way that it didn’t really need it. “I think Gunther called that Tiger’s Eye? It’s a kind of quartz.”

“It’s beautiful,” Sam said, almost reverently.

Samira couldn’t help it. She’d already given a nicer specimen to Gunther and she wouldn’t be short on funds after today—“Keep it.”

He looked up. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah.”

He held it to his chest. “Dude, thank you.”

“No worries.” And now it was time to be mortified again. “In payment, maybe you can help me up the fucking stairs?”

He laughed and stood up, holding out a hand. Gingerly, almost as if it was illicit, she braced herself against it and tensed to lift herself to her feet—

But he pulled her upright in one smooth motion. “What do you need to get up the stairs?”

Samira hadn’t let go yet; she was pretty sure she would collapse if she did, and not from pain. And she was blushing. “Uh—maybe just—” Oh this was bad, probably, this was taking advantage. But she was going to do it anyway. “Can I keep your hand—uh, like for support?”

“Yeah, of course,” he said seriously.

It was amazing, she thought as she eased her body up the stairs with his hand, how safe she felt with him. How she didn’t shrink away from his touch; she craved it. She was going to have to let go of his hand soon. She didn’t want to.

She did.

“Thank you.” There was more she wanted to say, but she looked into the face of this good-hearted helpful golden retriever of a man with his nails painted blue and found that she couldn’t ruin this. She couldn’t dare to put this at risk by confessing anything more. There was no reason for him to be receptive anyway—he might be amused by his spiky mean goth friend, he might even like her, but he wasn’t going to love her.

“Anytime.” His tone was breezy, but she knew he meant it. “You want your backpack inside?”

“Yeah, if you can just put it inside the door.” The pain was starting to come back. She should probably lie down.

“Cool.” He scooped up the bag and waited for her to open the door. “I think I gotta get home for dinner. Are you gonna be okay?”

No. Stay. Don’t leave. “Yeah, I'm fine. Can you text me the details about the festival?” She opened the door.

“You got it,” he said, leaving the backpack where she asked. “I’ll see you then.”

He gave her one last grin and a wave and walked away. Samira hung out the door until her back started to really bother her.

“Fuck,” she breathed, and left for the fridge to get an ice pack.

Chapter Text

“What do you think?” Sam asked his band.

Backstage at the festival. The Pelicans were waiting for the go-ahead from the stage crew to set up their stuff. It was time for Sam to reveal his plan, because he was going to need their help.

“Yoba, it’s an incredible idea,” Abigail said, beaming.

“It’s a pretty grand gesture,” Sebastian said doubtfully. “What if she doesn’t go for it?”

“Then we do what we planned originally, we end on ‘Never Boring,’” Sam supplied. He’d already thought this through.

“Which would turn it around back to friendship, smart!” Abigail declared. “I’m so in.”

Sebastian considered for a moment before nodding. “All right. Let’s see if it works.”

*

Samira wandered through the festival, not feeling like a freak for once.

Being in Zuzu City again was strange. She’d first of all made a point to have lunch with her dad, because it really had been months since she’d seen him in person, and that had been soothing in a way she didn’t know she needed. He had to go to work, or else she would have invited him to the concert, but he listened to all of the millions of things she had to say that were harder to say over the phone, and he’d laughed and been sympathetic at all the right points. She’d even switched back and forth between English and Gotoro; Dad had been impressed that she had been practicing.

That said, she’d been on guard every moment until her arrival at the festival, at which point she’d seen a group of punks talking to a drag queen, and figured she was safe. This festival was like a winter wonderland for weirdos, and apparently they did it every year. She wished she’d known about it before she’d moved out to the farm.

“Samira!”

Samira searched the crowd near the music stage—Penny was waving, although it had been Maru beside her who had called out. Great, someone to watch the concert with. She joined them, right in front by the stage.

“What’s up?” Samira said. The two of them looked extremely cozy in their coats, although neither of them seemed to be really dressed for a concert. Samira had opted for enough layers of lace and net and black and silver that she didn’t need a coat, although she had added a scarlet scarf when she’d walked outside and the chill had hit her in the jaw.

“Nothing much,” Maru said, in direct contravention of the evidence.

“I’m so glad you made it,” Penny said. “Sam was adamant that you should come.”

Samira scoffed. “Okay? I was coming either way, they’re my friends.”

“I haven’t actually heard them play all together,” Maru commented. “Only Sebastian practicing. Which does sound good, but incomplete.”

“I listened to them on their website,” Penny said. “It’s very good.”

“They have a website?” Samira asked.

“Sebastian probably did that,” Maru said thoughtfully.

A thought occurred. “Who sings? Sebastian?”

“Oh definitely not,” Maru almost laughed.

“Mostly Sam, and Abigail sings backup sometimes,” Penny explained.

“Huh.” Samira considered. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard him sing.”

“I believe Sebastian mentioned his range was something like A2 to A5,” Maru commented.

“I’m not a music person, I don’t know what that means,” Samira said.

Maru thought about this for a moment. “I could tell you what it means in terms of frequency, but maybe the more helpful context would be that Sebastian called that range ‘stupid.’ In a complimentary way.”

“Really!” Penny said. “I knew he was a good singer, but that is impressive.”

“So he can hit a lot of notes?” Samira attempted.

“Yes,” Maru clarified. “The Pelicans don’t sing my favorite kind of music, but it’s clearly well executed.”

“You guys really know how to get a girl hyped for a concert,” Samira snorted. “Hey, do you think this is a mosh pit kind of show?”

“Oh, goodness, I hope not,” Penny said, laughing nervously. “I don’t think that’s the type of music they play.”

“What type do they play?”

A squeal of feedback from the stage briefly sounded before being silenced. The band had entered the stage, settling in at their instruments. Sam said something inaudible to Sebastian before leaning into his mic and saying, “Pretend you didn’t hear that.”

The audience chuckled a little, and Samira smiled. She caught Sam’s eye; he brightened when he saw her. He was wearing eyeliner, which was frankly just rude along with the painted nails resting casually on his guitar.

“What’s up everybody, you might notice that we are not Therapin,” Sam began. Who was Therapin? “We’re also not fernGhouls, but they were kind enough to ask us if we could open for them today for you. We are The Pelicans.”

Abigail played a zesty little drumroll to emphasize that statement.

“Coming to you from just down the coast in Stardew Valley,” Sam went on. “And we’d love to play a few songs for you. How’s that sound, Zuzu City?”

This was, of course, the cardinal rule of putting on a concert, is that you had to say the name of the place where the concert was. It did the job; an appreciable cheer rose up from the audience, and Samira joined in with a whoop.

“All right, let’s go,” he said, and stepped away from the mic a little.

Samira felt her cynicism ruffling up, like a spooked cat, in the few seconds before the first song began to play. This might be kind of a shitshow. This might be boring.

What did he say? That she’d helped with the songwriting process without even knowing it? What did that mean?

Sam stepped up to the mic and sang, a capella: “What you love ain’t always good for you baby!”

Samira’s jaw dropped open. Holy shit. His voice.

Abigail snapped off four beats, and the guitar and the keyboard crashed in, a flurry and whirl of shredding, music that grabbed you by the ribs and yanked you in. And Sam sang,

What you love ain’t always good for you baby,
Love the sinner, hate yourself
Your enemy’s your neighbor, maybe
Be nice but do not dare to help…

It was a song about expectations and perceptions, about hypocrisy, maybe even about the military—Love your country, hate your crimes.

And it was good. Sam was…Sam was incredible. His voice swooped and dove and soared, buttery smooth, warm like an open wound, absolutely perfect.

Good for you
Good for you
Suffering is good for you
What you love ain’t
Good for you
Is it worth the cost
It must be worth the cost…

The moment the song ended, Samira screamed her appreciation along with the rest of the crowd, and to her surprise Penny joined in.

And then the next song was “Panic,” which had Sebastian going absolutely ham on a claustrophobic melody that matched the speed at which Sam sang about losing his mind and losing control. It cut off abruptly, which was both musically fantastic and prompted a huge cheer from the crowd.

And the next song was a love song. A love song with a strong fishing motif. Like, wall-to-wall fish puns along with a sincere fondness that made Samira’s guts feel soft. A creeping suspicion filled Samira’s stomach like…like butterflies. Surely not…

The next song was a ballad. Closer now, can’t be closer now, I won’t come any closer now… About not being able to touch someone you loved. Oh.

And then they brought the energy right back up with one called “Outcast Hero,” which was almost fairy-tale in the telling, about a woman who society rejected, who made her way with an axe and a sword and saved everyone.

It made Samira’s breath catch in her throat. Fuck. They were about her. Directly or indirectly, the songs were inspired by her.

“Folks, we’ve had such a good time with you today,” Sam said, playing a little riff on his guitar as he spoke. “Would you indulge us with one last song?”

The crowd whooped in approval. Samira took a quick glance around and realized that a lot of Pelican Town folks had come out to see the band—she spotted Harvey, Emily, Leah and Elliot, and even thought she saw a glimpse of Shane, way in the back—but that they were way outnumbered by punks and weirdos and other misfits of Zuzu City, who were clamoring for more Pelicans. Penny was adorable with how much fun she was having, and Maru, though she had slipped some noise-canceling headphones over her ears, was still listening intently and nodding her head along.

And Samira loved concerts, losing herself in the music and the crowd, being one with the universe for a minute, but now, here…this felt like a concert for her, specifically. And nobody knew.

Well. Samira caught Sam’s eye again, with new understanding. One person knew.

“This last song is for someone we need to thank,” Sam went on. “This is the person who convinced us we needed a drummer.”

“Good thing she did too,” Abigail chimed in, and the crowd laughed.

Fucking hell—he was just going to come out and say it, wasn’t he? Dedicate this song to her? Holy fuck. The butterflies were out of control, and she couldn’t stop looking into his eyes. She felt like a teenager screaming at a boy band. She felt like maybe she’d never known what it was to be in love with someone until this moment.

“She helped us nail down our sound and get a photographer for the cover of our EP, which you can buy over at the merch table by the way…” Sam quipped, for another laugh. “We owe her a lot. Samira, would you come up here with us?”

Holy shit. She glanced at Penny, who was beaming at her, and then back to the band. Abigail was downright gleeful, Sebastian was nodding sagaciously, and Sam…

He looked momentarily embarrassed, and then gave her a hopeful look. And reached out his hand.

There was no fucking way in hell she was passing this up. She took his hand, and he lifted her like she was light as a feather up beside himself, glowing golden under the lights, looking…beautiful.

He smiled at her in a way that was almost…private, just for her, even as the crowd hollered and cheered for her entrance. And then he turned back to the microphone. “Hey, everybody, do you think we could convince her to sing?”

“I think it’s worth a shot,” Abigail lilted, and even Sebastian laughed.

Samira shook her head. This couldn’t be happening, this was a dream. It was too magical to be true. “Sing what?” she demanded over the noise of the crowd, but not into a microphone.

In answer, Sam played the opening musical phrase of “Tainted Love”—which was apparently a favorite, based on the audience’s reaction.

The sound seized Samira’s heart. Where it all began.

“What do you think?” Sam said, away from the mic.

She didn’t hesitate for long. Dear Yoba, please remind me what the words are. “Okay.”

Sam was radiant. He took the mic off its stand and handed it to her. When she took it, the crowd went wild, and Sam played that phrase again. And then Sebastian came in along with Abigail.

“No pressure,” Sam said, right before her cue.

A flicker of mischief entered her mind, casting out any nerves she had. She’d show him no pressure.

“Sometimes I feel I’ve got to—”

Abigail’s drumbeats here were perfect, and Sam leaned in to the mic to sing backup vocals along with Samira, his face right next to hers—like their breath was combining, almost like a kiss—

“Run away, I’ve got to…get away from the pain you drive into loving me…”

*

“That’s all for us, give us a few minutes to clean up and then get ready for the fernGouls!” Sam declared into the mic before hurrying an exhilarated Samira backstage.

“Sam!” Samira laughed. She couldn’t help it, bubbling over with adrenaline and the high of the performance and that warmth of home. “That was amazing! You’re amazing, I…” She trailed off because what could you even say?

“It’s all because of you,” he said, sincere as the grave, moving his guitar to his back. “I meant it. Everything I said.”

“Lyrics too?” Samira asked, but she already knew the answer.

“All of it,” Sam confirmed.

Then Samira couldn’t help herself any longer—she seized the lapels of his jacket, pulled him down to her, and kissed him.

It was brief—it caught him by surprise, and Samira was prepared to let him go when he pulled away, but he wasn’t upset. He looked dazzled. “Holy shit.” He lifted up his hands on either side of her. “May I…”

He was asking permission to touch her. To make sure she felt safe. She was going to kiss this dude’s brains out. “Please.”

Sam wasted no time, one hand on the nape of her neck, the other on her back, pulling her close for a real kiss, a proper kiss. He tasted like salt from sweat and something sweet, sweet as soda and just as effervescent. Samira felt like her brain was made of fireworks.

“This is the girl?” a woman interrupted, and if someone had to interrupt at least it was the coolest punk Samira had ever seen.

Sam blushed very pink. He let go of her, more’s the pity. “Uh…yeah, this is Samira.”

“You should join their band,” the punk said casually. “You sound great together.”

Samira blurted out the first thing she thought of, which was, “I have a farm to run.”

The punk raised her eyebrows in surprise and then laughed. “Oh, Sam, she’s a keeper. Hey, sorry to do this, Samira, but you’re actually not allowed back here.”

“It’s cool, I’ll uh…” Sam faltered, and then laid a warm hand on her shoulder. “I’ll find you later. Back home. I’ll text you.”

“Promise?” she teased.

“Promise,” he returned, dead serious.

“Exit’s that way,” the punk said, pointing, and Samira floated away from Sam reluctantly, fueled by the way he didn’t quite put his hand down until she was properly out of reach.

Samira exited backstage back into the crowd, her boots barely touching the ground.

Chapter Text

Sam could not remember a better day.

The concert! The crowd! And Samira, Yoba, Samira…

And then fernGhouls took them out for food and drinks, talking music and introducing them to a bunch of other bands, and each musician had questions or shop talk or compliments, and Sam was living and Abigail was making out with a hot leather-clad lesbian and even Sebastian was having fun debating piano stuff with a cigarette in his hand…

And then maybe Sam had one too many drinks, because they passed by a tattoo parlor and he decided to just do it and get an eyebrow ring. It was Maddy who talked him down to getting his ears pierced instead, which had not actually occurred to him but was definitely on the table.

So now he strolled across the dark courtyard of Pelican Town toward his house with two tiny star-shaped studs in his earlobes, still just a little bit tipsy, feeling like there was a sun in his chest. Samira had kissed him! She’d kissed him first! She’d smelled like rich dark earth and hair gel and cinnamon. Holy fuck.

He couldn’t stop grinning.

He opened the door to his house. “Mom?”

“Oh good, you’re here,” Jodi said, with a cool, frightening calm, from her seat on the couch.

Sam paused. Something was up. “Hey! Sorry I was out so late, but the band we were opening for offered to get us some food, and—”

“It’s quite all right,” Jodi said. “Come sit.”

He did not particularly want to sit by his mother while he smelled like so much beer, but he did anyway. “I was just so hype about the show, you know, and—and the thing with Samira onstage, I wasn’t sure it was going to work, but—”

“That was sweet,” Mom said, smiling. “It was a very good show. Vincent enjoyed it quite a lot.”

“Oh yeah, is he in bed yet?”

“He is,” Mom said. “He’s already heard this from me.” She paused. “Are your ears pierced?”

Sam had prepared for this. He’d thought about the ways he could justify this to his mom, and he’d come to the conclusion that he should take a cue from Samira here. He didn’t really need to justify himself.

“Yep,” he answered simply.

“Were they pierced this morning?” she wondered.

“Oh, no, this is new today.”

Her brow was wrinkled in concern, but she seemed to dismiss this thought for later. “All right, well…anyway. What I wanted to tell you.” Tears sprang suddenly into her eyes—her hand flew to her face. “Oh my goodness.”

A pang of fear twinged in his gut. “Mom?”

“Sorry,” she said quickly, dabbing the tears away. “Right. I got a call today from…from a diplomat, actually, and the short story is, they’ve negotiated for your father’s release.”

The breath caught in his throat. “Holy shit.”

“Language,” she warned.

“Yeah sorry, but—c’mon, holy shit. He’s coming home?”

More tears popped up in her eyes. “Yes.”

Sam’s hand flew to his head, brushing painfully against one of his ears. “That’s—that’s amazing, when?”

“They think spring,” Mom said. “A month or two. Not long at all.”

“Oh man!” Dad was going to be home again! This day just kept getting better! “This is…I don’t even know what to say!”

Mom laughed damply. “Neither do I! It will be so good to see him. I’ve missed him.”

“It’ll almost be weird to have him back,” Sam said. “How long is he gonna be home for?”

“Oh, this isn’t the same as him going on leave, Sam,” she explained. “He was a prisoner of war. He needs to recover, probably for months or maybe even years. He might be home to stay.”

“Oh.” Well now he just felt stupid. “I guess that makes sense.”

She frowned. “Are you all right?”

He wasn’t sure. He was trying to imagine what it would be like to have Dad home, permanently, for real.

Something about the idea made it hard to breathe.

“Sam?”

Was Sam the type of son his father would be happy to come back to? Because…because he was a grown man, kind of, who spent all his money on a band that had existed for months but just now put on their first real show. Because he was wearing eyeliner and nail polish and had just got his ears pierced, and it was all well and good to avoid justifying himself to his mom, but that wouldn’t be good enough for Kent.

And Samira! Fuck, he’d just kissed Samira, he’d finally made a move on this girl that he was in love with and she was Gotoro! And his dad was coming home! It was one thing to ask her to withstand his mother, but what the hell would his father do?

“Sam!”

His vision started to go black around the edges. He realized with horror what was happening, again, this time in front of his mother about his own father—

Panic.

Chapter Text

Sam <3: hey sorry i didn’t text last nite
Sam <3: things got kinda crazy after the concert
Sam <3: my ears are pierced now?

outcast hero: Okay, a) kinda surprised they weren’t before, and b) I had worried a little that you’d partied too hard and forgotten about me

Sam <3: i’d never forget
Sam <3: yesterday was everything

outcast hero: Shit. It sure was.
outcast hero: I guess i should start with thank you? I felt like an actual rock star

Sam <3: hell yeah you were one!
Sam <3: maddy’s totally right, we sound good together, offer’s open to join whenever you want

outcast hero: I actually meant what i said about the farm. You guys practice so much. I couldn’t keep up.

Sam <3: respect
Sam <3: we’ll just have to have you on as a guest star sometimes

outcast hero: Don’t threaten me with a good time

Sam <3: lol

outcast hero: So

Sam <3: ?

outcast hero: You kissed me.

Sam <3: lol you kissed me first

outcast hero: Yeah it seemed like the thing to do when a dude was being devastatingly romantic.

Sam <3: aw shucks
Sam <3: i’ve been crushing on you for a long time
Sam <3: maybe since we’ve met

outcast hero: Like a whole fucking year? And i thought i was down bad.

Sam <3: for real???

outcast hero: I’m not sure how many times i need to remind you that you fished me out of the river and saved my life.

Sam <3: since SUMMER
Sam <3: what have we been DOING

outcast hero: I would have asked you out ages ago if i’d known. You were giving me like nothing

Sam <3: sorry
Sam <3: i was worried about

outcast hero: …about?

Sam <3: this is hard to talk about
Sam <3: i was worried how my family would react, i didn’t want you to get hurt

outcast hero: Well. Who knew Vincent was so problematic.

Sam <3: i’m being serious

outcast hero: I know.
outcast hero: Sorry.
outcast hero: It’s sweet that you thought of that but i can take care of myself. It wouldn’t be anything like, new or hard.

Sam <3: sebastian said as much

outcast hero: Sebastian? Your Sebastian? That we know?

Sam <3: he has his moments

outcast hero: Anyway, we’ve been stupidly orbiting each other like idiots for months despite our mutual crush.

Sam <3: but not anymore

outcast hero: Not anymore!

Sam <3: so we should go on a real date right?

outcast hero: It seems like the most logical course of action

Sam <3: do you want to do the nite market in a few days? i know the feast of fasting starts soon but since it’s after sunset it should be fine right?

outcast hero: Huh

Sam <3: what

outcast hero: I have a couple questions. First of all. How do you know about the Feast of Fasting?

Sam <3: came up in a book so i looked it up

outcast hero: What book? Are you a big reader?

Sam <3: not really? sometimes. it was an audiobook

outcast hero: Okay, well. Second question is, you have the Night Market here?

Sam <3: they have it other places?

outcast hero: Yeah, it’s actually related to the Feast of Fasting. You didn’t know?

Sam <3: no but that makes sense because a lot of the vendors are Gotoro
Sam <3: so they’d have to eat and party and stuff after sunset

outcast hero: Yeah it’s like a tradition. It’s the feast part of the Feast of Fasting.

Sam <3: sick
Sam <3: so you. me. night market. third day? i’m going with vince on the second.

outcast hero: Done. What if I see you before then?

Sam <3: we should probably make out just to be safe

outcast hero: He plays guitar, he has great hair, AND he’s a genius. Total package.

Sam <3: lol i do my best
Sam <3: see you then

outcast hero: <3

Chapter Text

Sam wondered, as he approached the Night Market for the second time this year, if he was kind of thinking about this date like a soldier. On the first two days, Sebastian and Abigail had attended, and he’d asked both of them a bunch of questions as well as accompanying Vincent. The mermaid show was worthwhile, but was boring for Vincent, the food was good, the shopping was good, the coffee was free but the cocoa cost money, and the submarine was extremely cool even if you didn’t go fishing. Knowing what to expect made him a little calmer about today, because today was also the day when he was going to try to make Samira understand about his dad.

It was not doing his nerves any favors to know that their first date might also be their last, but…it was better to know she’d be safe. He knew she could take care of herself. She didn’t know his dad though.

Fully aware of all of this, entirely prepared for the worst, Sam determined to enjoy himself until the moment she decided to break up with him. Not that they were even properly dating yet. Maybe this conversation would solidify that too.

It was with this in mind that he strolled to the beach on a winter evening, trying with all his might to be chill, and found Samira chatting up another guy in Gotoro at a food stall.

The dude was dressed in…Sam supposed it might be called “traditional dress,” some kind of billowy pants and a cummerbund over his shirt, although he wore an apron over the top of that. He was also extremely handsome—like Sam was straight, but he wasn’t blind, this dude looked like a model. And he was currently saying something that was making Samira crack up.

It was stupid to be jealous. They weren’t even really dating yet. It wasn’t like she couldn’t have other friends. He swallowed back a pang of the jealousy that it would be stupid to feel and stopped hovering, putting himself in her eyeline.

“Aw, fuck,” Samira gasped, wiping away a tear. “Hi! You made it!”

“Hi,” he said, trying to be chipper. “What’s so funny?”

“It makes more sense in Gotoro,” the dude said dismissively. “Is this the guy?”

“Yeah, Sam, this is Nasir,” Samira said, leaning an elbow on the counter. She looked fucking incredible, done up with the eye makeup and and the hair and some kind of corset-type thing that made it actually really difficult to remember to look at her eyes. She still looked warm, though, in her usual leather jacket, and her cheeks were a little rosy from all the laughing. “He’s been sharing all the gossip.”

“Not that there’s much to share,” Nasir said. “We’ve had ridiculous years, but this year has been quiet.”

“It’s so weird that a town as small as Pelican Town has a full Night Market,” Samira went on. “Sam, you said it’s here every year?”

“Yeah, straight up I didn’t know other places had it too,” he said.

Nasir smiled. “That’s all my aunt. She loves this town.”

“How come?” Sam asked, shoving his hands into his pockets. Be chill. “Like, I like it, but…you know.”

“I do know,” Nasir chuckled. “She says it just has a certain something. She’s already here every week anyway, why not bring the family for a Night Market?”

“Is your aunt Maram?” Samira asked.

“Careful,” Nasir said, waving a hand at Sam. “You’re going to give him the idea we all know each other.”

Samira found that very funny, and Sam tried to chuckle along, but a few bubbles of shame choked him out.

“But yes, that’s Maram. Second-most common Gotoro around here besides you, I should think.”

“Shit, right?” Samira laughed. “Okay, Sam, now that you’re here, do you want something to eat?”

“I’m starving,” he said, with some relief because he felt like a third wheel on his own date and also because he was always starving. “What’s good?”

“I like it all, but you seem like a kebab kind of man to me,” Nasir said, pointing to Sam with a lazy finger. “Maybe…kebab torsh?”

“How do you have kebab torsh?” Samira demanded. “Do you have the thistle thing?”

“Nah, but we have something close.” Nasir shrugged. “I guess I’ve never tried the real thing. Never been to the Empire.”

“What’s the thistle thing?” Sam asked.

“It’s like this fruit that comes off this kind of thistle plant?” Samira attempted. “It’s part of the kebab. Like, the famous part.”

“Well now I want to know if we’re in the right neighborhood,” Nasir said.

“Sounds good to me,” Sam said, noting the price and taking out his wallet, even though he wasn’t entirely sure what he was about to be eating. He looked to Samira. “Uh, two?”

“Definitely,” she agreed, and Sam paid the man. Nasir futzed around in the makeshift kitchen/grill situation in the back of the stall for a few minutes, before presenting them both with a paper boat of rice with a generous and fragrant kebab laying on it. He stuck a plastic fork in each boat before handing them off.

“What do you think?” Nasir asked.

Sam took a bite of the kebab—warm rich beef, with some kind of a flavor to it that was nutty and fruity and fucking delicious— “Holy shit,” he said with his mouth half-full.

“Mmm,” Samira hummed, and Sam appreciated her blissful expression while it lasted. “That is pretty fucking close.”

“We should put that on our banners,” Nasir quipped.

“You’re a great chef, Nasir,” Sam commented, before digging into the rice. Was it kind of baked and crusty at the bottom? It was unusual, but Sam was instantly obsessed with it.

“Ah, this is a part-time job,” Nasir said dismissively. “And I only help with prep and sales. My mom makes most of it.”

“Is she taking adoption applications?” Samira said.

Nasir grinned. “I’ll ask her. I’m glad you like the food.”

“I might come back for more,” Samira said, digging into her rice. “Thank you.”

“Yeah, thanks,” Sam agreed, just in time to catch Nasir giving him a look of scrutiny. Suspicion, even. The look was gone the next second. Why was Nasir giving Sam a look like Sam was dating his sister? Unless he was scoping out the competition?

“No worries,” Nasir said smoothly. “Enjoy the Market.”

Samira and Sam ambled away, much to Sam’s relief. Now the date could really begin.

“Don’t think I didn’t see that, paying for food,” Samira commented. She took another bite of her kebab and then pointed it at him. “Sneaky.”

Sam chuckled. “Lemme have this one. It’s special.”

Samira eyeballed him. “Special, hm?”

“Yeah,” he said. It might be the only date he got with Samira, it was important.

Some of the weight of his purpose must have leaked through in his tone, because Samira smiled, kind of to herself. “I guess you can have this one then.”

“Samira!”

It was Maram, waving from one of the houseboats. Sam’s heart sank a little. This was going to be another distraction.

“Hi Maram!” Samira called, changing direction to approach her counter. Dutifully, Sam followed.

“I see you have met Nasir,” Maram said, giving the food a magnanimous wave. “Is he not the nicest boy? So hardworking.”

The bubbles of shame started to appear in Sam’s gut. Even Maram wanted Samira to date Nasir.

“Nasir’s great,” Samira agreed, seemingly oblivious to this vibe.

Maram beamed, and said something in Gotoro. Samira frowned and said something back. Maram insisted. Sam looked between them, bewildered.

Finally, Samira switched her food to her left hand and seized Sam’s hand—cold and small and fierce—and said in English, “I know what I said before, but he’s my boyfriend now, okay?”

“I meant no offense,” Maram said, although she didn’t look all that apologetic. “Just a suggestion.”

“I don’t need your help,” Samira scoffed, and pulled Sam away.

Sam was still a little in shock, and followed her willingly. “Um?”

“Auntie stuff,” Samira grumbled. “Trying to set me up with Nasir.”

“Yeah, no, I got that bit,” Sam sputtered. “He does seem nice.”

“I don’t think his boyfriend would appreciate that,” Samira said offhand.

The connection fired in his brain. “Oh! Okay.”

Samira’s storm cloud of anger dissipated, and she finally looked at him. “You weren’t worried, were you?”

Sam couldn’t think of a single thing to say that would be helpful, so instead he said, “I’m your boyfriend?”

Her eyes went wide. She dropped his hand. “That was—I needed to get her off our backs, you know—sorry. It was a lot for a first date. I’m not crazy. Or possessive.”

He flexed his hand, sorry hers was gone, and held it up in a placating gesture. “I didn’t think it was crazy or whatever, it’s cool. Promise.”

Her feathers unruffled a little and she sighed. “Fuck. I’m screwing this up.”

Oh, she was nervous too. Shit. Forget about his own nerves.

“Here, let’s sit,” he said, gesturing toward the edge of the dock. He waited for her to uncoil a little before taking some steps that direction and sitting. She joined him, without reluctance, just far enough that they weren’t touching. She was tense; she’d stopped eating.

He considered for a minute what to say, taking a bite of his rice while he did. “Fuck, this is good. Like, I think I always get food at the Night Market that sounds…you know, white, I guess. I wouldn’t have tried this.”

Her shoulders relaxed a little. “Can’t miss out on kebab torsh. It’s probably the best version I’ve had in the Republic.”

“It’s fucking great.” He took another bite of the kebab, savoring it as he chewed. He knew what to say now. “I am so fucking nervous about this date, dude.”

Most of her tenseness had dissolved now. “Why are you nervous?”

“I wanted to have like, kind of a serious conversation at the end of it, which means I wanted to make sure I didn’t fuck it up first, like it was fun before it was serious,” he explained.

“What kind of a serious conversation?” She leaned away from him, maybe just to look him in the eye.

“Like if this goes well and we want to do it again, I just want to make sure we’re on the same page.” Warn you about the impending arrival of a man whose job it used to be to kill Gotoro people. So you know what you’re getting into. “I want to make sure you get treated how you want.”

“And you get treated how you want?” Samira prompted.

The thought had literally never occurred to him. “Yeah sure.”

“Why wouldn’t we have that conversation first?” Samira wondered.

“Shouldn’t we make sure we like dating first?” Sam countered.

Samira considered this, eating some of her food. Good.

“Okay,” she said, shrugging. “Let’s do it.”

A wave of relief washed over Sam. “Cool.”

“Cool,” she confirmed.

And maybe it was the weight of holding that private secret released, but Sam suddenly felt a lot less nervous. For the first time that day, Sam realized this was a date.

“Hey,” he said.

She looked up from her rice. “Hm?”

He leaned down and kissed her, just brushed his lips against hers, because he was pretty sure her mouth was full. When he drew away, she had stars in her eyes.

“Wow,” she half-whispered. “I forgot.”

“So did I,” Sam admitted.

She scooted a little closer to him so that they were touching, hips and legs and her shoulder at his arm, and he felt the affection and trust in that gesture with a jolt, like the gift that it was. He kissed the top of her head before turning back to his food.

“So,” she said, “what’s this about a mermaid show?”

“Oh yeah, we should go to that,” Sam said. “A lot of people think it’s like…what’s the word, um…sexy dancing but not a strip thing—”

“Burlesque?” Samira suggested.

“Yeah that,” Sam said. “But I never got that vibe? I always thought it was more artistic than that. And the music is great.”

“You’ve piqued my curiosity,” Samira said. “Let’s go.”

She leaned in against his side, and to his surprise, his nerves were gone.

Chapter Text

Samira didn’t always practice the Feast of Fasting, mostly because it was fucking inconvenient. For a week, you only drank water, ate no food, had no sex, did no drugs including caffeine, and tried to be extra humble and grateful. After sunset you could eat, but during the day you were supposed to replace all thoughts of food with gratitude and prayer. It was actually a cultural practice older than Yoba worship, which some people incorporated into their religion, but for Samira’s family it had always been much more about being Gotoro.

This year Samira had practiced it, though. After all the magic shit, she didn’t want to take any chances. It did feel a little salacious to have a date on the last night of the Feast, but the last night it was traditionally kind of okay to cut loose, so it was probably fine.

And it had been a really good date. Samira was a goth. She was not immune to the romantic. After the initial weirdness, Sam had been his usual goofy self, but he’d been considerate and thoughtful the entire time. They’d had fun.

The crush was evolving. It wasn’t just butterflies. She genuinely liked Sam.

They were holding hands as they crossed the bridge back into town. She liked how his hand kind of enveloped hers.

“I don’t even know what genre she falls into,” Sam was saying, gesticulating with both the hand that held hers and the hand that didn’t. “It’s got African beats and funk instrumentation and techno vibes—it almost reminds me of acid jazz, but it’s not that either.”

“People really are just making up new music genres left and right,” Samira laughed.

“Right?” They approached Sam’s house, and Sam stopped, turning to face her. “Okay, so I want to do this again. Do you?”

He was so solemn and earnest. Samira wanted to kiss him, but she recognized that as a delaying tactic. Sam and his serious conversation would be good, but the possibility of vulnerability made her guts squirm. What if she opened up to him and he…she didn’t even have words for what she was afraid of. He wouldn’t hurt her, it wasn’t that. Not intentionally.

“Yes,” she said. “Is it time for a serious conversation?”

“I think so,” he said, throwing a glance around. A breeze picked up, and he shivered. “Ugh, it’s cold. Do you want to go inside?”

It was very cold, late at night in the middle of winter, but still Samira hesitated. “Won’t that wake up your family?” The last thing she wanted to finish out this date was Jodi hovering.

Sam considered this, and then let go of her hand to hop off the sidewalk toward his window. “Here.”

Samira snorted. “Okay?”

“Don’t worry, I do this all the time,” he assured her, pulling open the window. He folded himself through, looking like a leggy spider going through a crack, and then turned to offer a hand to Samira. Trying not to snicker, she took his hand and followed.

His room was, as usual, pretty neat, except for his unmade bed. He slipped out of his shoes, whipped off his coat and scarf and hung it over his desk chair, and held out a hand for her jacket, which she passed off to him a little shyly. It was one thing to wear the corset when the off-shoulder shirt underneath was covered in leather and spikes. She liked this look, but it was…vulnerable. It took her extra awkward time to unlace her boots, but tracking snow and sand all over the house was no way to start a serious conversation.

“You can take the chair and uhh…” Sam considered for a second. “I’ll…sit here.” He sprawled out on the ground, half-lounging, legs folded.

“Pff, whatever,” Samira said, and sat with him on the floor, hugging her knees.

He gave her a look she didn’t really understand, but there was some fondness in there. She decided she liked it.

“Okay,” she said. “Serious conversation.”

“Serious conversation,” Sam repeated, and took a deep slow breath, averting his gaze. “So uh…my dad is coming back.”

“Oh.” This was…not what she’d expected. Not in the least.

“I found out last week,” he added. “I um…I know you can take care of yourself, but this is going to be something different and…I don’t know what’s going to happen.”

She could see him getting anxious. And honestly it was sweet that he continued to check in with her about this, but…his anxiety was making her nervous now. “How different are we talking? Like…like people are racist at me, Sam. Usually not…loudly, but sometimes.”

Sam swallowed. “I’m not really sure.”

“Can you give me…an idea, I guess?” She needed some kind of shape of what he was getting at, something to either soothe his fears or confront them.

He frowned at the ceiling, searching for an answer. “I um…when Mom told me, I had another panic attack.”

“What?” Samira uncoiled before she realized she was doing it, ready to spring into action to fix something that was already over. “Why?”

“I’ve been trying to figure that out,” Sam explained, leaning toward her, looking at his hands. “Because I was scared of—of him, I guess, but that doesn’t make any sense. He’s never hurt us. He’s never insulted us. The worst he’s done is yell sometimes, maybe lose his temper, but everyone’s done that. And…well, I guess I haven’t seen him in a while, I don’t know what he’s…he’s like now.”

Samira frowned. So this wasn’t necessarily about her. Well…maybe it was, but filtered through Sam’s fear. “You said he’s been in a prison camp.”

“Yeah, for a couple years at least,” Sam said. His voice was low.

“Has he…changed before?” Samira attempted.

“He never used to lose his temper,” Sam said. “He never used to…criticize us for being girly. I don’t know, maybe that just started because I hit puberty or something.”

“Fuck that,” Samira spat without thinking. Shit, she shouldn’t have said that; Sam was startled by the outburst. “Sorry, but—fuck, Sam, I do not like this guy. You seem like you’re always scared of him looking over your shoulder.”

Sam grimaced, which only proved her point.

“I am not scared of him,” she said firmly.

Sam finally met her eye, and looked terrified. “You don’t know him.”

“I don’t care,” she said sharply. “If he wants to reject me, whatever. I don’t care about what he thinks. And if you…” Her breath caught in her throat for a second, because she was about to put words to the worst version of this serious conversation, but it had to be fucking said. “If you want to protect me from him by not being with me or something like that—”

“No, no way,” Sam interrupted. “The opposite. Kind of. Shit.” He grimaced again. “Look, I am scared of what happens next, and what kind of person my dad is now. But I want to be with you, and if you aren’t scared of him, then…I’m with you. Whatever it takes. I’m…committed.”

That hit like a blow to the chest. “Fuck, dude.”

“Is that too much?” he said desperately.

It was only everything she’d ever hoped for. “You’d really fight for me? Like, stand up to your dad?”

“If I had to, yeah,” Sam said, offering his hands to her. “Of course I would.”

This was too good to be true, but she wanted it. She wanted it very badly.

She put her hands in his, but gingerly. “What if this doesn’t end up working out? What if we make all these stupid promises and then it turns out we’re just…not fucking compatible?”

“I mean, I’d still try to stand up for you, I hope,” Sam said, slowly. “That would still be the right thing.”

Shit, he was perfect. He was too perfect. Here was…here was a literal rockstar who rescued fainting damsels from drowning and stood up to racists. Samira lifted his hand to her mouth and kissed it.

“Samira?” Sam said, wonderingly.

“If you’re all in, so am I,” she murmured. It might be a mistake, but she refused, for once, to return kindness with a wall. If he could be vulnerable, she would be too.

He let go of her hand to lift her chin, tilting her face up toward him to kiss it, in so many places that she started to giggle.

“Am I your boyfriend now?” he teased.

“If you want to be,” she snickered.

“Yep,” he confirmed, and kissed her once more, properly this time. She threw her arms around his shoulders and buried one hand in his hair and kissed him like she meant it.

A thought occurred, and she found the thought absolutely inspired, so she followed the impulse and let one hand slide down his back, around his hip, and to his inner thigh.

His breath went ragged and he broke off. “Woah, hey—”

“Do you want to have sex with me?” Samira said, because she was tired of dancing around subjects and wanted one answer that was just a yes or no. “Like, tonight? Right now?”

“It’s the Feast of Fasting, though?” He phrased it like a question, searching her face.

That did actually give her pause. “You know a lot about the Feast.”

“I did it on purpose,” he explained. “Planning a date today. I didn’t want there to be any pressure.”

Holy shit, he was perfect. She couldn’t not fuck him. “It’s the last day, and it’s—look.” She pointed to the little dusty alarm clock on his dresser, which read 12:09. “It’s after midnight.”

“So it’s cool?” Sam asked.

Her hand had not moved from his thigh, so she moved it now. “It’s very cool.”

He made a tiny little sound in his throat and reached out for her—

And at that precise moment, there was a knock at his door. “Sam?” came Jodi’s voice from the other side.

Samira found that Sam was mirroring her own feelings of abject horror. Fuck, he mouthed.

“What do we do?” she breathed, without whispering because that would be audible.

He threw up his hands and mouthed, Hide????

She stole a glance around the room, but there was no closet; under the bed seemed to be populated with amps; the bed itself!

“Just a second, Mom,” Sam said, sounding very cool, as Samira dove for the ruffled tangle of covers and curled up as small as she could.

The moment she stopped moving, Sam opened the door.

“Hi,” he began, but Jodi interrupted.

“Did you come in through the window again? I didn’t hear the door.”

“Yeah, I didn’t want to wake you,” he said.

“Are you all right?” she asked. “You’re flushed. And sweaty.”

Samira slid her hand to her mouth to keep from laughing.

“I was just doing some push ups,” he said, a little sheepishly. “Gotta stay on top of things. You know.”

“I suppose.” Samira wasn’t sure she was buying it. “As long as you’re not doing anything wrong.”

“Like what?” Sam said, which was a pretty bold question, even though his tone was innocent.

“Well, never mind,” Jodi said. “Sleep well.”

“Thanks Mom,” Sam said, and added, “You too.”

Samira waited for the door to shut before sticking her head out of the fabric pile, shaking with silent laughter.

“Shit,” Sam said quietly. He was beet-red. “That’s embarrassing.”

“Push ups,” Samira squeaked, before immediately putting her hand over her mouth.

“Yeah,” Sam said, shaking his head. “You can leave out the window if you want to.”

Samira absolutely did not want to. In fact, all of this bedding smelling like Sam had done fuck-all to slow her particular roll. “Sam, I’m literally in your bed right now.”

Sam glanced over his shoulder at the door, and then looked at Samira. “Yeah. You know what? Fuck it.”

And he pulled off his t-shirt—holy shit, muscles—and hopped into bed with her and found her mouth with his, and then when she broke off giggling, grinned and said, “How the fuck do I undo your corset thing?”

“Here,” she said, guiding his fingers to the end of the laces, and not worrying when he untied it easily, because she trusted him.

*

Jodi had to hand it to Sam and Samira, they were being quiet, she thought as she crawled back into her own bed. It was a little stupid to think she believed him about doing push ups when Samira’s signature jacket had been practically on display, hanging over his chair, but love did make one a little stupid.

Still. She wasn’t like some very devout Yoba-worshippers, who believed in celibacy until marriage at any cost. Of course she had hoped for that for her sons, but Sam was in fact twenty-two and could make his own choices. At least it was a nice devout girl like Samira.

At the same time, though, Jodi considered that her husband would be home soon, that Samira was a bit prickly, that apparently the thought of his father made her oldest son panic, that no one really knew what the future held, as much as she’d like to pretend she did.

Jodi lay awake, hearing nothing, knowing more than she wanted. Worrying.

Chapter Text

Back when Kent used to read, he read about ancient empires.

This was a meme now, apparently. The private in the bed next to his had referenced it, that first week out of captivity, and then explained it at length, despite Kent’s best efforts. Kent was privately pleased that thinking on such historical matters had become stereotypically masculine, even as he was publicly annoyed with the chattering kid in the room who wouldn’t shut up.

But anyway. Kent used to read about conquests and battles and emperors and generals, and when the brave soldiers came home, the people threw them a homecoming parade. People cheering, banners waving, the spoils of war carried alongside captured slaves, the constant adoration.

The thought made Kent itch.

His own homecoming would be quieter. At least, that was what he had asked for. As soon as they would let him, he called home, and after his wife had stopped weeping, he’d requested no fanfare, no party, not even a banner. It was all going to be hard enough.

He’d also requested new pictures of his sons, half-worried he wouldn’t recognize them. On average they hadn’t changed too much—which was to say that Sam looked not that different, longer hair and a touch less baby fat, but Vincent looked entirely strange, like a real person now. He wondered how on earth they’d ended up with a redhead. Kent would be worried if Vincent didn’t look exactly like Kent himself had looked in second grade, and anyway Jodi said she was a redhead once. Her hair had faded brown by the time they’d met in high school.

The picture looked painfully normal, a candid. Sam was sitting on the floor in front of the couch—the familiar old couch—chewing on a pencil, staring at a notebook, and Vincent was behind Sam, playing a handheld video game with his tongue sticking out of the corner of his lip, deep in concentration. The peace of the scene made his skin ache.

Jodi had sent him a selfie too, from the beach. It looked like right before sundown, she was wearing a coat and turtleneck, and there were lights and decorations—ah, the uh…Night Market. Jodi had a couple more wrinkles, maybe a stray gray hair or two, but the sight of her had made his heart turn over once or twice like a rusty lawnmower engine. He had not allowed himself to miss her until right that moment.

He knew things would not feel normal possibly ever again, but coming home…he wanted them to try. Just a normal family. He needed that.

There was physical recovery to do first, which took an annoyingly long time, and didn’t really fix some of the more prominent pains only because there wasn’t technically anything wrong with him, and he wasn’t about to get addicted to opioids for something he could grit his teeth and power through. There were debriefs and psych evals, the former of which got repetitive very quickly as he recounted again and again how little he knew, and the latter of which became an exercise in which combination of words and feelings would convince them to let him go home. Finally, though, his superiors were satisfied, and he found himself in a car, chauffeured like some kind of fancy rich guy, from the veterans’ hospital in the region’s capital, to Zuzu City, and on through the traffic to Stardew Valley.

It looked almost the same.

Jodi met him at the bus stop, which was as far as he wanted this sleek black military vehicle to go. He had a stiff, brand-new backpack that held a folder of paperwork and his sparse personal belongings. He used to have a little more, some of which wasn’t even military issue, but much of that had been confiscated and hadn’t been included as a condition of his release.

Jodi was crying from the moment he saw her, trying and failing to keep the tears from streaming down her face. He exited the car, waving as the driver rolled away, and approached her carefully.

“Oh Kent,” she eked out, clasping her hands together tightly. Not touching yet. He’d warned her about that. Sudden movements at him still threw him into a flare of survival-focused action, which was not great for anyone. This was backfiring now though, because he wasn’t entirely sure she was real. Nothing about this felt very real.

He had to prove it, he supposed, and brushed some of the tears away with one thumb. “Can’t have that. You’ll get all dehydrated.”

A damp little laugh escaped, and she threw her arms around him, which nearly brought him to tears. She smelled just the same. He felt very fragile, as if she could snap him in half.

“I’m so glad you’re home,” she said, murmuring it into the crook of his neck. That seemed pretty real. “I’ve missed you terribly.”

He was unprepared for the crashing wave of grief that came over him then, mourning for time lost, guilt for refusing to miss her when it would hurt too much. He cradled his wife close, for an embarrassingly long time, before releasing her enough to kiss her. Real. Definitively.

“Shall we go home?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said, letting their hands lock into that deliciously familiar combination they always used to. “I’ve made a fish casserole, and we’ll have a little cake for the occasion.”

Kent nodded. Very good, very normal. They walked together down the quiet thoroughfare toward town. “What’s changed? Since I’ve been gone?”

“Well let’s see,” Jodi said breezily, in that soothing way she had. “I suppose the main thing is…you remember the old abandoned farm? That old man? His granddaughter took the place over. She’s a nice girl.”

Kent didn’t really know what she was talking about, but if she brought it up, then it must be at least worth mentioning. “Okay, what else?”

“Vincent’s gained a new interest in ancient mythology. I know you know a lot about that too, which is a bit of a relief. I won’t have to know the difference between Heracles and Hercules anymore.”

“There isn’t really a difference, but go on,” Kent said, smiling a bit.

“Oh, well, excuse me,” Jodi said, smiling back. “Sam’s finally started that band he always talked about. They sound very good.”

“Him and Sebastian?”

“And Abigail.”

Kent shot her a look. “Not little Abigail.”

“She’s an adult now, so not so little,” Jodi said gently.

“Huh.” Kent had never known anyone with a real band before. Although it remained to be seen whether or not his son’s band was any more real than anything else today. “And they’re good?”

“Well you know how I like any kind of live music,” she said. “But everyone there seemed to be having a good time. And Sam is a very good singer.”

Kent couldn’t ever remember Sam singing; at least, he could remember him singing before his voice broke, little boyish soprano trying to growl out Metallica, but not since. He’d believe it when he saw it.

“Sam has a girlfriend now,” Jodi added, almost offhand.

Kent frowned. “I guess he at least waited until she was an adult.”

“Oh, no, honey, not Abigail,” Jodi said hurriedly. “It’s actually the new farmer.”

“Our son? Who is in a band?” Kent shot her a look of disbelief. “What’s he seeing in a farmer?”

“Oh she’s hardly a stereotypical farmer,” Jodi laughed. “But she really is a nice girl. I’m sure you’ll meet her sooner or later. You’ll see.”

“What’s her name?”

Jodi hesitated for just a little too long before saying, “Samira.”

Kent felt his hackles rise automatically, before he even processed why. Danger. He had come back to danger, his son was in danger, he knew this was too good to be true—

Intel. “She’s Gotoro?”

“She was born here, but yes,” Jodi said, and now he could hear how forced her lightness of tone was. “But it’s hardly the first thing you notice about her. She’s more goth than anything.”

Intel did not compute. “What?”

*

Sam felt like an injured bird, full of nervous energy, desperate to get away from here, but unable to move. He was sitting with Vince on the dusty, little-used porch furniture, in a circular anxious cycle of tapping out the drumbeat to “Panic” on the chair’s seat, picking at his newly unpolished nails, and realizing he was doing that and stopping. This had been going on for what felt like forever.

“Hey Sam,” Vince said, and Sam once again stopped dissecting his cuticles, gripping the arms of the chair for dear life.

“What’s up?” he said, forcing his tone into a shape that was casual.

“Are you scared of Dad?” Vincent was fidgeting too, but more because he was bored than because he was nervous, Sam thought.

This was a quandary. Sam didn’t want to lie to Vincent, but he also didn’t want to give the kid his own insecurities. Those were a Sam problem.

“I think I’m just scared of not knowing what will happen,” was the response he landed on.

“Oh,” Vincent said, and added after a moment, “It’ll be okay probably.”

Shit, he didn’t want Vincent to be the one to have to comfort him. That wasn’t his job. “You’re not scared of Dad, are you?”

“No,” Vincent said. “Just when he yells sometimes. Is he going to do that?”

“Probably not.” No, right? Nah. That was unreasonable.

Still though, Sam was only just hanging on. He’d spent hours texting Penny and Samira and the band for advice and comfort. Penny offered empathy and carefully measured advice; Abigail had many suggestions, few of which were helpful but all of which made Sam feel like he had options; Sebastian wildly misunderstood where Sam was coming from, but even that forced Sam to explain what he was feeling in a way that was concrete, putting it all into shape; Samira reminded him he could always ditch.

He didn’t want to do that right away, though. Despite all this, he loved his dad. That, and he harbored a sneaking suspicion that this might be all in his head. Maybe this was fine, actually. Maybe the panic meant the problem was Sam.

“Here they come,” Vincent said, hopping up from his chair.

Mom and Dad were hand-in-hand, but they were silent. A tense silence. Sam felt like he wanted to run.

“Dad!” Vincent shouted, running at them, and Sam watched his father’s demeanor change immediately, from grim stoicism to instant softness. Dad received the hug as if it was a breath of fresh air, and Mom relaxed immediately.

“Hey, kiddo,” he said. His voice sounded rougher than it used to. “You got so tall.”

“I know,” Vincent said importantly, pulling away from Dad. “I’ll be as strong as Sam one day.”

“I bet you will,” Dad said, and looked up to Sam. His expression immediately hardened.

What the fuck, why was Dad already mad at him? Sam shoved his fists in his pockets to try and keep himself under control and approached his father.

“Hi, Dad,” he said, quietly.

There was a lot going on in his father’s face. It wasn’t so hardened as he’d thought, though. Dad stuck out a hand to shake. “How are you, son?

Sam scoffed. It was just stupid, he wasn’t going to shake his dad’s hand. He threw his arms around the man.

Dad froze immediately, and that wasn’t even the most shocking thing—Sam remembered his father as a huge, solid, immovable force, but this man was thin, almost brittle; Sam felt as though he could crush him. He was taller than his dad now.

And then Dad relaxed, and embraced his son back, and Sam felt a glimmer of that familiar strength, holding onto him fiercely.

“Are you okay?” Sam muttered automatically, as nonsensical as the question was. Of course he wasn’t.

Dad didn’t answer, only released him, looked up—up!—into his eyes, and considered him carefully. “Hair’s getting long.”

“It stays about this length,” Sam said, which was a practiced response that now sounded pretty stupid.

Dad frowned past his head. “Did you pierce your ears?”

“Yeah,” Sam said, and wondered if he’d be able to hold off on the explanation part of this conversation. But Dad’s demeanor darkened, and Sam quailed. “Kinda doing an 80’s James Hetfield kind of thing.”

Dad’s brow relaxed, and he accepted this with a nod.

“Shall we go inside and have a bite to eat?” Mom asked. “The casserole should be just about ready.”

“I’m hungry,” Vincent declared.

“You two go ahead,” Dad said. “I want to talk to Samson for a second.”

Full name. That wasn’t good. Sam could feel his pulse thudding into his neck as his mother nodded sweetly and ushered his brother inside. Fuck. “What’s up, Dad?”

Dad waited until the door had closed before he turned a steely eye onto his son. “Your mom tells me you’ve been seeing a girl who’s Gotoro.”

Sam swallowed. Coming right the fuck out with it, eh? Thanks, Mom, he’d been hoping to have a controlled conversation on his own terms, but he supposed that was too fucking much to ask.

What would Samira do? Besides telling the old man to go fuck himself. She would be confident that he wasn’t doing anything wrong. Because he wasn’t.

“Her family’s Gotoro, but she was born in the Ferngill Republic,” Sam said, forcing his voice to be dry and strong. “Just like we were.”

“Do you know how many Ferngill nationals we found fighting on the other side?” Dad said seriously. “Kids who were raised here and defected?”

Sam did know, as it happened, because he’d read about the phenomenon in one of the books about the endless war. He chose not to say that maybe some of those kids were disillusioned by the promise of liberty from an empire that called itself a republic. “So…you think Samira’s a spy?”

“No, I don’t think the girl is a spy,” Dad said, getting defensive. “I’m telling you to be careful. There are…cultural things. Traditional things. They get drawn into the Gotoro way of thinking, and it’s not personal, it’s just who they are.”

Sam almost laughed at the idea of applying the word “traditional” to Samira.

“Just be careful,” Dad said, gripping Sam’s shoulder. “Promise me.”

Ah, an out. The argument had an exit ramp. “I promise I’ll be careful.”

This seemed to satisfy him. He took a deep breath in and out.

“Dad, are you okay?” Sam asked again.

Dad looked at him, studying him, before averting his eyes. “C’mon, kid. Let’s eat.”

Sam’s pulse had settled, but he was no less disturbed. He followed his father into their home.

Chapter Text

How long did you have to date someone to ask how his existential crisis was going, Samira wondered, as once again she looked up from her fishing bobber to find Sam staring into space with that horrible flat expression he’d started bringing around. They’d been together about a month, maybe a little more; ever since Kent, the specter haunting Sam’s life, had arrived, Sam’s normal lightheartedness was starting to show some cracks. The two of them were sitting in comfortable silence by the river bank while Samira fished. Or at least, she had thought the silence was comfortable.

“Sam?” she said, and when he didn’t respond right away, poked his leg and said, “Saaaaam, Samuel, come in Sam.”

He blinked a few times. “What’s up?”

“You okay?”

“Of course,” Sam said, smiling and running his hand over her fingers fondly. “Why?”

Samira opened her mouth to tell the truth, but her mouth said without her permission, “Oh…no reason.”

Fucking coward. Had she learned nothing?

He accepted this, nodding, while Samira berated herself.

“It’s not Samuel, by the way.”

“What?”

“Sam’s not short for Samuel,” he said mildly.

Samira’s brain latched onto this new distraction from her cowardice. “What’s it short for? Anything?”

“Samson.” Sam rubbed the back of his head sheepishly. “I don’t really like it.”

Delightful. “Samson? Like the strong guy?” She tried not to grin and pulled her line back in. The fish weren’t biting anyway.

“Yeah, or like a big friendly dog or something,” he said, shrugging. “I’m just Sam.”

“So I shouldn’t call you Samson?” Samira asked, partially teasing him, putting her pole away so she could sit facing him.

He started blushing a little. “I mean, it makes me feel like I’m eight years old, but if you wanted to break it out for like, special occasions? Maybe?”

Samira tucked that information away. “Gotcha. Only the most special of occasions.” She reached up and flicked some strands of hair out of Sam’s face that had the audacity to stand between her and his pretty hazel eyes. “Although, and I hate to point this out, you are a big friendly guy.”

He smiled at her, that golden smile that felt like the warmth of home in her chest. “You hate to point that out?”

“Just saying, you’re not beating the Samson allegations.” She leaned in, bracing herself against his legs to give herself a boost. “And you’re very strong.”

He accepted a kiss like it was a breath of fresh air, and then gave her a mischievous look.

“What?” she asked. “I promise I won’t call you S—”

In one fluid motion, he lifted her to her feet, spun her around, and hauled her onto his shoulders, while she made an embarrassing squawk like some kind of confused bird.

“Strong guy!” he declared jovially, standing up while she scrambled to get a handhold on his shirt.

“Holy shit, what is happening!” she gasped.

“Now who’s a big friendly dude!” he said, grabbing onto her legs to steady her.

“How dare you call me friendly!” she laughed.

“Let’s go find a game of Chicken!” Sam launched into a sprint, and Samira had only to hold on for dear life and giggle as he ran. Fuck, it was good to hear him laughing like this. It was good to be laughing like this, free and light and—

“Samson, what the hell do you think you’re doing?”

Fuck.

Sam skidded abruptly to a halt, and it was only his hold on her legs that kept her from toppling off his frame onto the pavement. Emerging from the trees like a buzzcut ninja was a man who looked uncannily like Sam, or maybe like Sam from some dystopian future where he had to cut his hair and wear a battered green army jacket. He was broader built than Sam, but a couple inches shorter.

From up here, he didn’t look so scary, but the way he’d barked out that remark—used Sam’s full name, carried himself with power—she understood why Sam’s shoulders were going stiff.

“Uh, I’m—we’re—” Sam stuttered.

Ah, no. Fuck that. No one made her boyfriend feel like this.

“Hi!” Samira said, overbrightly in the way people found disconcerting from a goth. She rested her arm on the top of Sam’s head, casually. “I’m Samira, you must be Sam’s dad.”

Kent met her eyes with familiar confusion. Go ahead, Kent, do your worst. I’m a huge Gotoro goth weirdo and I’m sitting on your son.

Apparently this had been the right move, because Kent backed off the ferocity he’d first shown. He cleared his throat and said again, “What is it you’re doing?”

“We’re just messing around,” Sam said, less nervous already. There it was, go Sam, nothing to be afraid of here.

“Do you know how visible you are?” Kent said sharply.

“We’re not exactly dodging snipers here,” Samira shot back. It was a deliberately provoking statement, she’d meant it to be, and Sam squeezed her ankle in…warning? Horror? Encouragement?

Kent looked angry at first, and then frowned. “I suppose…I suppose you aren’t.”

Sam released her ankle. Okay, so not a positive reinforcement.

“Samira, right?” Kent glared at her. “You want to get down here and look me in the eye?”

“Well you’re still over six feet, so I wouldn’t really be looking you in the eye, right?” Samira mused.

Sam squeezed her ankle again.

“But I’ll come down, to be polite,” she said, and then paused. How to get down? “Uh, Sam?”

“Can you get your leg over my head?” he muttered. Ah, he wanted her on one shoulder.

“Yep,” she said, letting him release one leg and then carefully following his instruction, trying not to kick him. She had to lean back a bit, but luckily he immediately reached up to brace her, and once she was fully on one shoulder he lifted her down to the ground. He was actually really strong, she thought. “Right, so hi. Nice to meet you.” She stuck out a hand to Kent. A challenge.

Kent looked at the hand, and then at her. Ah. He knew what this was. Without breaking eye contact, he shook her hand, trying to squish it. She squished back, just to show him she wasn’t a baby.

“Jodi says you’ve taken over the old farm,” he intoned, neither releasing her hand nor looking away.

“That’s right, Watten Farm,” she said, giving the Gotoro word as accurate a pronunciation as she could manage. “It’s what my grandfather would have wanted.”

“You speak Gotoro?” Kent said, in a thick accent but passable standard Gotoro.

“Fluently,” she responded, because she wanted to see exactly how much he spoke. “A gift my mother and father gave me.”

He narrowed his eyes. She actually couldn’t tell how much of that he understood, seeing as he was too busy trying to dig through her skull with his gaze.

“My son is precious,” Kent said, which was a little shocking; it was a syrupy, almost poetic thing to say, in contrast with every other thing he’d said so far in English or Gotoro. “Hurt him, and I will hurt you.”

Ah, a shovel talk. Samira had never been on the receiving end of one of those. This man was afraid of her. Perfect.

“I don’t know what you could mean by that,” she said, letting go of Kent’s hand so she could hold Sam’s. He clutched hers weakly. “That doesn’t sound like something I plan to do.”

Kent looked momentarily lost. This guy didn’t know what to do when he couldn’t intimidate someone! That was so sad. He figured it out in less than a second, though, because he set his jaw and said, “My mistake. I’m not so fluent.”

So he had understood. Samira smiled again and said nothing. She didn’t need to. She knew what his game was, and he didn’t know hers, and furthermore, he didn’t want his son to know anything. Protective, only one move in his arsenal, a typical dad, and he wasn’t just disapproving or racist, he was genuinely afraid of her. She had been right not to fear him.

Sam cleared his throat after a long silence. “Can I walk you home, Samira?”

“I’d love that,” she said, even though she really needed to get to the mines today, but whatever, the mine carts were fixed now and it wouldn’t be too far out of her way, and anyway, more time with Sam. She turned her smile on him, and it immediately faltered; he was pale, twitchy. Uh oh. “Um. Shall we?”

“Yeah,” he said, maybe just a little too quickly, and turned to leave immediately. “See you later, Dad.”

“It was nice to meet you,” Samira called behind her, all sweetness and brightness.

Kent raised a grim hand in a strange facsimile of a wave before turning back to become one with the trees.

“Sam, I—” she began

“Hang on.” Sam’s tone was very flat.

Shit. She’d ruined something. A pit opened up in her stomach, and she let Sam lead them both toward the woods.

As soon as they had properly left town, Sam let go of her, leaning instead on Marnie’s fence.

“I wasn’t trying to be rude,” Samira began, and then cut herself off this time, because Sam was buckling, folding over in the middle, breathing hard. “Sam? Fuck, Sam?”

“I’m not panicking,” he gasped. “Not—at least, I don’t think so—fucking shit.”

“Okay,” she said, dubious, coming closer. “What’s up, what’s happening?”

“Yoba, fuck.” He straightened, rubbing his face with both hands. “Aw, that was fucking terrifying. That was the worst that could have gone.”

“I mean, it could have come to blows,” Samira posited, before the thought had the decency to enter her head that maybe now wasn’t the time. Shit, could she not control her own mouth today? “Sorry, that was glib. Um. It could have been worse. Trust me.”

“Fucking how!” Sam demanded, turning suddenly toward her, with desperation. “Did my dad fucking threaten you in Gotoro? Tell me he didn’t and then maybe I’ll say you’re right.”

Samira hesitated. “Does a shovel talk count as a threat?”

“Holy fucking shit,” Sam groaned. “He didn’t.”

“Sam, it’s okay, I expected way worse,” she assured him. “That wasn’t bad at all. In fact, I think he’s the one scared of me.”

“Of course he’s scared of you!” Sam burst out. “He was in a Gotoro prison camp!”

Samira was struck dumb.

Well. Shit.

He must have seen her expression, because he winced. “Fuck. I’m not saying it’s right. I’m not saying anything about this is right. But like…of course he’s scared.”

Samira pursed her lips. It was against her policy to be kind to people who chose to go out and kill people. Kent had chosen this life, and he knew the risks, or else he should have. She didn’t feel sorry for him.

But she didn’t necessarily have to be a dick about it. Not if it was for Sam’s sake.

What the fuck that actually looked like in practice, interacting with Kent, was way beyond her, but she at least didn’t need to be defensive now. She leaned forward, reaching out for him. “I wasn’t trying to pick fights or anything, I swear. It just made me mad that he scared you.”

“You both scared me,” he mumbled, accepting her hand. “Fuck. I hate that shit.”

“What, conflict?” Samira didn’t love an awkward situation herself, but she never got this messed up about a fight.

“I guess,” he sighed. “Doing a bad job standing up for you, huh?”

“He kept all the actual trouble to Gotoro,” Samira muttered. “So you couldn’t know.”

“That’s worse,” Sam groaned.

He still looked twitchy and pale. Samira held his hand in both of hers. “Are you sure you’re all right?”

Sam looked lost at sea for a moment, and then spread his free arm wide. “Um, can you—”

She drew him close immediately, arms crossing his strong back, trying to radiate comfort. It was funny, she thought, as he buried his face in the crook of her neck, that she never thought of seeking comfort like this. Maybe she should offer it more often to him. She didn’t mind touching if it was him.

He needed more from her, she realized. More than just her anger or her wit or even her body when offered.

“Hey,” she murmured. “How’s your existential crisis going?”

“Fucking sucks, dude,” he said, a little damply.

She hugged him a little tighter.

Chapter Text

Sebastian shuffled into the back room at the Stardrop on Friday, thinking of nothing much in particular, only to find Sam already there. Sam’s lanky form was draped over the couch, legs splayed out in front of him, head resting on the couch’s back, snoring. He was wearing his Joja uniform.

Sebastian raised an eyebrow and moved to stand over his friend, examining him. There were about a million ways Sam and Sebastian were different, and this was a prime example. Sebastian was a chronic insomniac, and Sam could sleep just about anywhere. Including in public, Sebastian thought, with a strange cocktail of wistful scorn. He reached down to shake Sam awake, and then paused.

Once, Sebastian had woken Sam up after he’d fallen asleep in his basement bedroom, and Sam reacted by throwing a punch that split Sebastian’s lip. Sam had a hell of a startle reflex. Best not.

Sebastian went instead to the rack of pool cues and chose the longest one, the one Sam usually used. He took it by the tip and nudged Sam with the blunt end. “Hey, wake up.”

Sam had swatted the cue away before his eyes were open, drawing back for a punch in one smooth motion before stopping, blinking owlishly in the light.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought you’d do,” Sebastian said, pulling the cue back and replacing it on the rack. “Morning.”

Sam shook his head to clear it like a puppy, dropping his fist. “Shit. Sorry.”

“Can’t help a fight or flight response,” Sebastian said dismissively, plopping down on the other couch. “What’s up? I thought you didn’t work on Fridays.”

“Yeah. Uh.” Sam rubbed his face. “I picked up an extra shift. Early. So I didn’t get much sleep.”

Sebastian frowned. Sam didn’t do extra shifts, or early. “Saving up for something?”

“I mean yeah, it’ll be good to have a reserve for equipment when we need it.”

Sam also didn’t do generalized saving, or planning more in advance than like, a week. Sebastian tried to remember if Sam had been acting weird lately.

Well. He had. But Sebastian had attributed it to dating Samira. And Sebastian hated to say it, but none of these changes were for the worse, technically. Sam was a relatively lazy person, barely doing a part-time job to fund a dream of a band—which was, admittedly, realer than Sebastian had ever expected it to be, but was still not technically a job. Because Abigail had insisted on transparency, Sebastian knew that almost all of the money they’d made from gigs so far was going back into the band. So if Sam wanted to be a little harder working, who was Sebastian to stand in his way?

Still. Sebastian was not accustomed to listening to his gut, but something wasn’t right here. Sam’s expression had gone blank in kind of a horror movie victim way, and not all of that could be attributed to just waking up.

Sebastian hesitated. This involved talking about feelings, and he’d never want Sam to feel the stripped-naked vulnerability that talking about feelings gave him. He was queasy just thinking about it. But the alternative was not looking out for his boy, and Abigail would be here soon, and he’d be damned if she battering-rammed her way into Sam’s feelings and made everything worse.

“Are you good?” Sebastian attempted.

“Yeah, I’m just tired,” Sam said, sitting up a little more on the couch.

“Everything okay with Samira?” Sebastian cringed even thinking the question, remembering all at once the way she’d kissed Sam after the festival show. He was jealous more conceptually than actually—not jealous so much of the girl Sam had got, but jealous that Sam had got the girl at all, and on top of that embarrassed at how badly he’d fumbled that selfsame girl—but it needed asking.

The smile on Sam’s face spoke before he needed to. “Way better than okay. She’s incredible.”

No arguing with that. Less said the better, if things were good on that front. Even if Sebastian was curious. He tried to think of another avenue of inquiry before asking what was really on his mind, because Samira wasn’t the point, Sam was. “Uhh…what about…at home? Everything good at home?”

The grin evaporated, and Sam went a little pale. Aha. Target acquired.

“Why?” Sam asked, suddenly curt.

“You’ve never taken an early shift in your life,” Sebastian said by way of explanation. It was a convenient tangible piece of evidence for this nebulous worry.

Sam swallowed, looking a little sick. Sebastian wondered if it was shame again.

“I just don’t really want to be home right now,” Sam said after a brief pause.

Well, shit, that was a decidedly bad sign. “Why not?”

Sam sighed and hung his head in his hands. “It’s my dad, dude, it’s…fuck.”

The town had discovered that Kent was home very slowly. Kent seemed to not want to make a huge thing of it, and Sebastian could understand that. He remembered Kent as this occasionally present statue, perpetually watching, and had been just as shocked as anyone to see him wearily slouching around town. Sebastian hadn’t spoken to him yet. Not that he had really spoken to Kent before either.

An impulse filled Sebastian’s chest: he wanted to protect Sam. It was weird to feel this toward Sam, his giant easygoing friend; the impulse was already rare for him, but it was usually directed toward Abigail or Maru. All at once, Sebastian noticed Sam’s hands; he seized his friend’s wrist, lifting his hand to look at it better. The nails were ragged, bitten down; Sam had clearly been picking at his cuticles until they bled, and most prominent of all, his nails weren’t painted anymore. After he’d been so excited and pleased with painting them before, too.

Unexpectedly, Sebastian was angry. “What did he do to you?”

The look on Sam’s face was fear. Sebastian wasn’t good at picking up vibes like Sam was, but Sam’s expression couldn’t be clearer. Sebastian let go of his wrist automatically, and Sam pulled his hand back and cradled it as if Sebastian had stung him.

“Sam?” Sebastian attempted. Shit, maybe this was too far. Sebastian suddenly wasn’t sure he wanted to know the answer to his own question.

“He hasn’t done anything,” Sam said finally. “At least besides—he—he did threaten Samira. Like, fucking shovel talk stuff. You know?”

“That’s a weird fucking thing to do to your grown son’s girlfriend,” Sebastian muttered, watching Sam’s face closely.

“Yeah, but she kind of expected it, and it fucking sucks but it’s not…” Sam trailed off, raking a hand into his hair. “It’s just…him. Having him in the house. He’s like a fucking tiger just wandering around. You think everything’s fine and chill and then he’s there, leaching like…lead poisoning into the air.”

Ahh. Sebastian nodded, finally understanding. “The vibes.”

“It’s oppressive!” Sam burst out. “It’s like I’m being smothered! Fuck, Seb, how am I supposed to fucking live? He doesn’t even realize he’s doing it!”

Sebastian had no idea what that felt like. In fact, in this moment it occurred to him that maybe he was the source of rancid vibes when he was in his broodier moods. Something to be mindful of later maybe. What did he want other people to do when he was brooding?

“Can you avoid him?” Sebastian attempted.

“I've been trying, but I still have to go home to sleep.” Sam rubbed one eye with the heel of his hand. “It’s affecting my mom too, I can tell. But she’s trying so hard to be normal—”

“Why are we being normal?” Abigail blew into the room, and a hole opened in Sebastian’s guts. Not now. She plopped down on the couch beside Sam, but to her credit managed to read the room. “What’s going on?”

Sam shot a pleading look toward Sebastian, like he didn’t have the energy to explain. Sebastian immediately stepped up. “Sam’s dad is pouring rancid vibes all over the house. To the point where he doesn’t want to go home.”

Immediately, she grabbed onto one of Sam’s hands comfortingly. “Oh Sam. I knew you were an empath, I’m so sorry it’s backfiring.”

Sebastian managed not to roll his eyes at this. It’s not like he was all that annoyed really, although Abigail holding Sam’s hand gave him a weird twinge he didn’t quite understand. At least she wasn’t being a battering ram.

“Are you like, walking on eggshells all the time?” she asked.

Sam nodded. “I’m so tired of it.”

“Band practice hasn’t been bad,” she offered.

“He leaves during band practice. It’s too loud.”

Abigail met Sebastian’s eye, with an unspoken question. What that question might be was beyond him, but she seemed to be doing an okay job so far, so he nodded.

“What happens if you piss him off?” she asked. “Would you be in danger?”

“I don’t know,” Sam said miserably. “It hasn’t happened yet. Except when he met Samira.”

“What happened then?” she wondered.

“Shovel talk,” Sebastian supplied.

“In Gotoro,” Sam added.

“Oh shit, you didn’t say that,” Sebastian said, looking back to Sam. “He speaks Gotoro?”

“I guess that makes sense if he spent all that time in a prison camp,” Abigail posited. “But that also means he’s trying not to upset you, right?”

“And he doesn’t realize he’s doing the bad vibes thing,” Sebastian supplied. “So maybe…maybe the answer is to stop acting normal. Let him see what he’s doing to you and your mom.”

Abigail laughed. “Yoba preserve us, Sebastian thinks you should be honest about your feelings.”

This rankled, but Sebastian also instantly regretted the advice. Go be vulnerable, Sam, it’s super easy.

Sam sighed hugely, his back heaving. “Maybe. I don’t know. Fuck.”

Sebastian glowered at the ground, mad at the situation at large. This was a fucking impossible decision, even if Sam wasn’t so tired.

“Stay with me tonight,” Sebastian said suddenly. “Crash on my couch.”

Sam looked up, surprised, and then with the ghost of a smile. “I fucking hate your couch. It’s too short.”

“Then I’ll take the couch,” Sebastian supplied. “Whatever. Get some rest and figure out what to do tomorrow.”

Sam’s body started to uncoil a little. He took a deep breath. “Okay. Thanks, man.”

“Boys night!” Abigail gave Sam’s hand one last squeeze before releasing it and standing up. “You do look like you need the rest. Do you guys want drinks? First round’s on me.”

“Please,” Sebastian agreed, and Sam nodded. Abigail grinned and whirled out of the room.

Sam sighed again, sliding down into the couch. “For real. Thank you.”

Sebastian waved the gratitude away. No need to get mushy.

“I have to go back home for clothes, I guess,” Sam muttered.

“You can borrow some clothes.”

Sam snorted. “That’s gonna look stupid.”

Sebastian smiled wryly. “Maybe, but I think you could pull off a crop top.”

And now Sam laughed, properly laughed. Good. Sebastian’s mind wandered back to Samira, to the idea of Samira laughing in Kent’s face as he threatened her. Or something like that, anyway. Samira was nearly fearless. Probably a good thing, since it turned out that Sam of all people was so anxious.

“Did you say Samira expected your dad to threaten her?” Sebastian asked.

Sam shrugged. “It happens to her a lot. I don’t like it, but…I didn’t even know until she told me. Which also sucks, I hate that my fucking dad has this avenue to hurt her in a sneaky way. Even if it doesn’t actually work. Do you know what I’m saying?”

“Because he speaks Gotoro,” Sebastian clarified.

“Yeah.” Sam frowned thoughtfully. “Maybe…maybe I should learn Gotoro.”

Oh. This was…significant. Sebastian looked Sam in the eye. “Holy fuck, dude.”

“What?” Sam looked worried again.

“Just…dedication.” Sebastian shook his head. And he couldn’t stop himself now, he had to know. “You’re like…really dating and shit now, right?”

“Yeah. Yes.” Sam spoke with absolute confidence.

“Have you uhhh…” Fuck, this pause was too long. “You got laid yet?”

Sam threw a glance over his shoulder—no Abigail yet—before turning back to Sebastian with a crooked grin.

Okay, now to the question Sebastian actually wanted to ask. Sebastian lowered his voice to ask, “So like, how was it?”

He actually wanted to ask several more comprehensive questions, but this was already inappropriate probably, and he didn’t want to test Sam.

Sam, for his part, had released a rapturous little sigh. “She’s…Samira is…exactly what I expected. Like you said it, she tells you exactly who she is and…and it’s true.”

“That’s…strangely poetic?” Sebastian attempted.

“She’s fucking sexy dude, she rocks my world,” Sam blurted. “What I’m saying is she’s just as good as you think. Better. Holy shit.”

Sebastian leaned away. “Damn, dude, you’ve got it bad.” And Sebastian was more than a little jealous.

“Yeah,” Sam said, kind of dreamily, grinning.

Maybe it was just honeymoon phase, or maybe it was Sam overcompensating with infatuation to offset his anxiety, or fuck it, maybe it was true love. Either way, Sebastian was quietly grateful that in this matter, at least, his best friend was happy.

“All right, we got drinks.” Abigail reentered with a drink in one hand and two in the other, offering the two drinks to her friends. “Cheers, Pelicans.”

Sebastian took a drink of his beer to wash away this conversation and stood. “We playing pool?”

“Gimme a bit,” Sam said, taking a long pull of his own beer.

“I’ll play you,” Abigail said, breezing over to the rack of cues and selecting one.

Sebastian was befuddled. “You’ve never played with us.”

“I’ve watched you long enough not to embarrass myself too bad.” She leaned over the table and hit an acceptable break.

And this was not the first time he’d noticed, but it was the first he’d stopped to appreciate that Abigail had a really nice ass.

Which was. Unacceptable. She was fully six years younger than him, she was only newly twenty, this was not okay.

He shot a glance over at Sam, to see if Sam had noticed this indiscretion, but he was just taking a drink of his beer and watching with mild interest. Didn’t even meet Sebastian’s eye.

Then this would be his private little problem, Sebastian thought, and moved to hit a ball into the pocket.

Chapter Text

Maru was manning the desk at the clinic when Samira came in.

This was a surprise because Samira was not on the schedule. No one was today, actually. She and Harvey planned to spend the day practicing some medical techniques, but this hiccup in the Plan was always possible, seeing as they were the only medical facility in thirty miles and Harvey could not afford to say no to walk-ins. Maru tempered her annoyance by reminding herself that the patients came first, and here was a patient. And it was Samira, who Maru liked for a lot of reasons. Not least of which was her directness. And Maru liked her aesthetic too, which was pleasing to the eye.

“Morning,” Maru said. “What can we do for you?”

“Hi,” Samira said flatly, and then glanced around the room as if looking for traps. “Look, um, I need a prescription and some advice. And if we could keep Harvey out of it, that would be preferable.”

Maru’s brow wrinkled. “I’m not authorized to prescribe things, so unless you’d like me to do something illegal—”

“No, no, I don’t want you to get in trouble,” Samira said hastily, and then paused. “Although…”

“Why don’t you want Harvey involved?” Maru asked, her brain already working. Maybe there was a solution.

Samira groaned, rubbing her forehead. “The thing I need is a little…sensitive, and…Harvey keeps threatening to get me in here for a checkup. I can’t stand it when people touch me.”

Maru nodded gravely. She could relate. “The invention of the stethoscope came from a similar scruple. Before that, the way you’d listen to heart function involved putting your head directly on someone’s chest, and René Laennec was uncomfortable doing that to women.”

Samira blinked blankly, and Maru worried for a moment that this had not been the right time for Additional Information, but luckily what Samira said was, “Damn, Maru, you’re teaching me to be grateful for blessings I didn’t know I had.”

That seemed positive, so Maru pressed on. “I’m sure there’s a solution to your problem, if we put our minds to it.”

Samira grimaced, but said, “What do you suggest?”

Maru considered. There were a few reasons people were touch-repulsed. One was being very ticklish or having some other involuntary spasm. This did not seem likely in Samira’s case, but could not be ruled out. One reason involved matters of anxiety or OCD, in which case the repulsion was about control over the subject’s personal space and surroundings. Also unlikely, from what Maru knew about Samira. Then there were matters of mundane bad experiences, possibly adding up to trauma, involving being touched without permission. In this case, the repulsion was most likely related to trust.

“Do you trust Harvey?” Maru asked.

Samira hesitated. Ah.

“It’s not that he doesn’t seem like a good doctor,” Samira said, and then stopped herself and shrugged.

Maru nodded. She had figured as much. “It is very difficult to do an exam without any touch at all, but it is possible. It will take extra time.”

Samira sighed. “I have shit to do today.”

“Then we can establish some more trust another way,” Maru said with confidence. There was always a logical solution.

“What if I just scare Harvey into not giving me a checkup?”

Maru raised an eyebrow. Harvey was a bit nervous, but when it came to medicine, very little scared him. He’d somewhat gleefully shown her a paper last week about a new treatment for diabetic ulcers that included several visceral photos, a few of which made Maru want to vomit.

“I don’t think you can,” she said cautiously.

“I’m a Gotoro goth with a razor wit,” Samira sniffed. “I’d put money on it.”

Maru shrugged. “All right. Bet you five?”

Samira raised her eyebrows. “Oh, fuck yes, we’re on.”

“Agreed,” Maru said, nodding. “But if you should lose this particular bet, how do you want to do this exam?”

“I’m not going to lose, so no need,” Samira bragged.

“Is that Samira?” Harvey emerged from the clinic with a stack of journals that he studied for the first hour of every day. “I was just about to send you a postcard to remind you to come by.”

“Well I’m only really here for one thing,” she said, disaffected and cool. “I need some birth control.”

Maru felt herself blanch. That was a pretty powerful move, to invite personal and therefore nonmedical questions that she knew Harvey was too polite to ask. But would it be enough to—

“That’s probably doable,” Harvey said, not swayed at all. “But let’s have a conversation about it first. And since you’re here, a checkup only makes sense. What do you say?”

What Samira had to say was a groan. Maru was pleased; she held out her hand expectantly.

“Fine,” Samira grumbled, digging around in her pocket and dropping the coins in Maru’s hand.

“Thank you,” Maru said, stashing them in her own pocket. Harvey had his flaws, but he was statistically dependable. “Would you like me to be in there with you? Or do you have another idea?”

“I’ll be okay, if—” here she shoved an accusatory finger in Harvey’s direction— “you explain to me what you’re doing before you do it. I hate being touched, okay?”

“We can definitely do that.” He shot a quizzical glance at Maru. “You know, we don’t charge extra for patient advocacy. That comes free.”

“Oh, that was an unrelated side bet,” Maru explained. “Let me know if you need anything.”

“Come on back, Samira,” he said, gesturing to the side door.

Samira caught Maru’s eye before she left. “I’ll be back for advice.”

“Related or unrelated to birth control?” Maru asked.

“Tangentially related,” Samira said, wincing. “Not technically medical.”

“I’ll do my best,” Maru promised, which seemed to satisfy her. She left through the door, and Maru decided to do a quick inventory check, which she could do in the span of a single exam and would save her time later.

Her mind wandered as she counted. There were a few reasons someone would want birth control, but the most obvious one was that Samira did not want a child at this time. Which begged the question of who she was sleeping with, of course, and the answer to that question had to be Sam. She’d spotted them around town holding hands, and people talked.

She wondered if Sebastian knew. She didn’t know the whole story, but her general impression was that his singular date with Samira had not gone well. It made sense that Sebastian would know his best friend’s business, but Sebastian was not the most communicative at the best of times. She knew full well that her brother did not like her, but nevertheless, she worried about his feelings.

She heard a raised voice and tuned back in to the conversation in the exam room behind her.

“What I’m saying is, your heart rate is a little elevated—”

“It’s because I fucking hate going to the doctor, Harvey!”

“Yes, you’ve made that abundantly clear. Please take a couple of deep breaths. I’d like to get a more accurate reading.”

Maru smiled. If only every patient was so straightforward. Most of them spent so much time grumbling or blustering that they never got around to what they actually needed.

The rest of the exam seemed to pass with a minimum of fuss, and Harvey emerged behind her just as she finished the inventory. “Would you be our pharmacy tech?” He held out a prescription.

“Of course,” Maru said, taking the paper and squinting at Harvey’s chickenscratch. It was a straightforward medication that they had in stock, no trouble.

By the time she got back, Samira had reappeared in the lobby, Harvey was behind the desk, and Samira seemed much more comfortable with the desk between them.

“Most people are just fine, but if you have any of those side effects, you come right back and let me know,” Harvey was saying.

“It doesn’t seem like anything I can’t tough out,” Samira responded, accepting the little box from Maru.

“You shouldn’t have to tough it out,” Harvey responded. “No medication is perfect, but you always have options.”

Samira spent a long time looking hard at the counter before meeting Harvey’s eye again. “Thank you.”

“Not a problem,” Harvey assured her. He checked his pockets, found a pen, and picked up his clipboard. “I’ll finish this up so you two can chat.”

Samira looked embarrassed by this, so Maru waited until Harvey was in the back and out of earshot, folding her hands neatly. “So. Advice.”

“Yeah,” Samira sighed.

“I’m curious why you asked me,” Maru said. She was excellent at problem solving, but it wasn’t what she was known for or often asked to do.

“Your advice about community really stuck.” Samira shrugged. “I thought maybe you’d know what to do. I’m fresh fucking out of ideas.”

This was flattering, but Maru was unsure if it merited expertise. “What’s the problem?”

Samira rested her elbows on the counter, frowning into space. Maru waited.

“I don’t know how to interact with Sam’s fucking dad,” Samira grumbled. “In a way that’s not just proving him right about me or letting him walk all over me.”

“Can you explain more about that?” Maru said slowly, trying to picture Kent and Samira in the same place, and finding that difficult. Maru had found him incredibly intimidating even before he’d come back from, if the rumors were true, being held captive by the enemy for several years.

Samira threw up her hands. “I look like every person who’s tried to kill him over the years. And who he’s tried to kill. And I’m dating his son.”

An incredibly awkward situation to be sure. “What is it you fear you’re proving right in his mind?”

“I don’t fear anything,” Samira corrected, scowling. “I just hate—I hate the idea of him thinking about me at all. I don’t want him to think about me. I want him to acknowledge that I’m dating Sam and then not talk to me.”

“And instead, what does he do?”

“He told me if I hurt Sam, he’d hurt me, in Gotoro,” Samira snapped. “Just so Sam wouldn’t understand.”

Maru frowned. A shotgun talk, also known as a shovel talk, was traditionally given by fathers to their daughters’ boyfriends, usually implying consequences for rape or preganancy. “He must really be afraid of you.”

This seemed to deflate Samira. “He is. A lot of people are, but he has a legitimate fucking reason.” Samira rested her elbows on the desk and her head in her hands. “It’s a dick move to use someone’s trauma against them. Even if their trauma is because they joined an army to kill people. So like. What do I do?”

Maru considered this carefully. Many difficult factors. Racism. Trauma. Politics. Interpersonal relationships. Power dynamics. Perhaps even a similarity in personality that Samira was decidedly not ready to hear about. If Maru was right, and she usually was.

“Have you had another relationship as an adult where you met your significant other’s parents?” she asked.

Now it was Samira’s turn to blanch. “Um. Not since I was like, nineteen, and that was a clusterfuck.”

“College?” Maru guessed.

“Freshman year,” Samira confirmed with a wince.

“So this is a new kind of relationship for you now, being both an adult peer of Kent’s and a contemporary of Kent’s son.” Maru nodded to herself. “No wonder it’s difficult. Kent doesn’t know what to do either. So I think the pertinent question is, how do you act with Jodi?”

Samira thought about this. “Polite, I guess. Nice, even. But she’s nice to me.”

“And you don’t put up with shit from people who aren’t, correct?” Maru added.

“Fuck no,” Samira scoffed.

“Then my recommendation would be this,” Maru said, holding up a finger. “Approach him the same as you would Jodi. Polite. Nice even. But do not tolerate his racism.”

“You think I should pick fights with my boyfriend’s dad,” Samira said, disbelieving.

“On the contrary.” Maru put her hand down, laying both out flat in front of her. “He will be the only one picking fights. You will simply be reminding him that being part of a community means there is no room for intolerance, no matter how afraid you may be.”

A grin spread across Samira’s face. “You make taking the high road sound wicked.”

Maru shrugged, unsure what to do with that comment.

“I think I can do that,” Samira said, looking much more confident. “I didn’t expect that kind of advice from you.”

Maru frowned. “How come?”

“I don’t know, like…I’m going to enjoy this, I think.” Samira shrugged one shoulder. “It’ll be pretty easy. Trying to live as a part of a community has been a lot harder.”

“Sometimes the right thing is simple,” Maru said. “Luckily. It can’t always be hard.”

“I fucking hope not,” Samira said sharply. “Like, shit, can I get a break? Please?”

“I hear you,” Maru said, nodding. She’d often thought the same thing. “I can’t promise you this will be safe, mind you. I don’t know how Kent will react.”

“I’ll deal with him,” Samira said. A little carelessly, if you asked Maru, but that was part of what Maru admired about Samira. Maru herself could stand to be less risk-averse.

“Do you like dating Sam?” Maru asked. She liked Sam, too, as a goofy, ever-present sort of brother figure, and the idea of Sam and Samira together was really nice.

Samira smiled, a smile that was almost…sappy, yes, that was it. Like she was melting. “I think every other person I ever dated sucks ass in comparison. I think he’s maybe the perfect man? I think…fuck. Yes, I like dating him. It’s…just…right.”

Now that was very satisfying, when all was right. Maru nodded sagely. “Good.”

Samira smiled to herself for a little longer, before turning back to Maru. “Okay, not to be like, I’m dating someone so everyone should date someone, but…like, what about you?”

“I’m a lesbian,” Maru said promptly. She could trust Samira with this information.

“Oh, then…” Samira hesitated. “Are you and Penny…?”

The question hung in the air, with Maru unsure how to answer it. “No, I…couldn’t.”

Samira raised an eyebrow. “Couldn’t…”

Maru’s face felt hot. “She isn’t interested.”

“Oh, you’ve already tried.” Samira grimaced. “Sorry.”

“Well, no, I haven’t asked,” Maru said, and now she was thinking how it’d be a good idea to hide forever.

“I see,” Samira said, nodding, although what exactly it was that she was seeing, Maru was too afraid to ask. “Well…maybe ask sometime. If you like her.”

To this, Maru had no reply.

“And thank you,” Samira added. “If you ever need anything, let me know. I mean it. I owe you.”

“Happy to help,” Maru managed.

Samira gave her a knowing smile and swept out of the clinic.

Maru sagged. That had been entirely unexpected. And strange. And uncomfortable. And interesting, and that was the main thing. Samira was always interesting.

Harvey appeared from the back and handed off the clipboard to her. “Ah, she’s gone?”

“Yes.” Maru drew herself back up straight and took the clipboard. “I’ll file this for you.”

“I made a note in there of how she prefers to do checkups,” Harvey said, pointing out said note. “Hopefully that’ll put her more at ease next time.”

“Thank you for your flexibility there,” Maru said.

“Are you kidding?” Harvey smiled, almost smugly. “I’m just pleased I finally got her in here. And she’s not even close to the worst one. Once Emily asked me what crystals would be most beneficial to her healing process.”

“Good grief,” Maru said, shaking her head.

“I know,” Harvey said. “Give me an embarrassed goth any day.”

Maru smiled, and then faltered, and then decided to smile again, and started to type up Harvey’s notes.

Chapter Text

“So,” Samira said, running a finger up and down Sam’s chest. “I decided something.”

They were at the farmhouse, which was a significantly better place to fuck than Sam’s house, for reasons of 1) lack of parents, 2) lack of Vincent, and 3) double bed. Like sure, there was something to be said for the excitement of risk, but there was also something to be said for taking your fucking time. Samira and Sam were adults, Yoba dammit, and sometimes a bitch wanted to linger. Hang out naked in bed for fuck’s sake. Have some morning sex before Samira had to go harvest every spring crop in the whole world, since summer was about to hit.

Samira was sitting over Sam, drawing patterns in his scant chest hair—blond people were hilarious—and Sam was leaning his face against Samira’s knee, his arm hooked around her leg. He might have been dozing off before she spoke, but now he tilted his head to look at her. “What did you decide?”

“I decided to be nicer to your dad.” She didn’t need to add the racism caveat, he already knew that.

Sam snorted. “Really?”

That annoyed her. She took her hand off his chest. “What’s so funny about that?”

He let go of her leg to reach up to her face, hooking a strand of her hair behind her ear. “I decided to stop.”

“Oh shit, really?” She shifted, so Sam would untangle from her leg, and lay back down to face him. “Why?”

“If he doesn’t know he’s making our lives hell, nothing will change.” Sam found her hand and held it. She was kind of amused that Sam gravitated toward touching her at all times, but also appreciated that most of the time he kept it to one point of contact, to avoid overwhelming her. He was good like that.

But more to the point— “He’s making your lives hell?” Samira felt her hackles rise.

“It’s like living with a fucking thundercloud,” Sam said. His tone was going flat.

She squeezed his hand. “What are you going to do?”

“Just stop working so hard,” Sam sighed. “I don’t know. Let him see how much it’s bothering us. Stop trying not to be weird.”

She kissed him, just softly and briefly. “I think I’m proud of you.”

His solemnity broke, and he grinned. “I decided to learn Gotoro too.”

That comment landed warm and wholesome in her chest. “Are you serious?”

“Yeah, I got an app and stuff,” he said. “And if you want, you can teach me some too.” He looked a little sheepish now. “If you feel like it.”

She smiled. “Okay, well, I have to warn you that my dialect is kind of…specific.”

“Like, the part of the Empire your family’s from?” he asked.

“Yeah, it was its own kind of…nation, I guess. Like two hundred years ago. Before the Empire took it over. We had our own language and it did weird things to the Gotoro.”

“Cool,” Sam said, which made Samira laugh. “Are both your parents from there?”

“My dad is, my mom’s from here.” Samira frowned. “My grandpa was…from the opposite side of the Empire, I think. I don’t know about my grandma. I never knew her.”

“You never talk about your mom,” Sam observed.

Samira bit her lip to keep from blurting out something stupid or a joke or something. This was no time to get defensive.

“You don’t have to,” Sam added quickly. “I get it.”

“No, I…it’s…weird. To talk about her.” Samira sighed and flopped onto her back. “I don’t know. I don’t think about her very often, but when I do…it hits like a fucking train. I miss her so much.”

Sam gave her hand another squeeze and then leaned over to kiss her on the head. “What was she like?”

What a question. How do you sum up a person’s life?

“She was…I mean, I was fourteen when she died, and I remember thinking how awkward she made me feel. She teased me in front of my friends and embarrassed me all the time. But I think that was just being fourteen, because she was funny. Like I was mortified around her so often, but I still laughed. She could make anyone laugh.”

Sam smiled. “I’m imagining she looks like you, is that true?”

“Nah, I look more like my dad. He says I have her chin, though.” Samira turned back to him. “Why do you want to hear about my mom?”

“Just curious, I guess,” Sam said. “I want to know about you.”

Samira melted a little. “That’s so fucking nice. You’re so nice.”

“Psh, whatever,” Sam said, pleased nonetheless.

“You really want me to teach you Gotoro?”

Sam leaned in close and murmured, “Please,” and kissed her.

“Mmm,” she hummed, and then responded with the Gotoro, “Please, you mean.”

“Please,” he repeated, and kissed her again. Not bad, Sam, not bad. “Then what?”

“Then you’d say thank you.” She ran her hand over his shoulder to his back, drawing him closer. “When I generously give you what you ask for.”

His kisses migrated across her jaw, onto her neck. “Thank you,” he breathed, which gave her goosebumps. Fuck, he was sexy.

“I love you,” she gasped, as his mouth traveled down past her collarbones. She hadn’t intended to, it just slipped out.

“What’s that one?” he said, sliding a hand over her hip.

Fuck. She hadn’t meant to say that. She’d fucking meant it, but still, this was too much, and—deflect, distract, kiss him hard on the mouth and grind up close to him and make him forget what he asked—

She would tell him later.

*

Sam was in a fantastic mood, which had everything to do with the absolute workout Samira had given him this morning. She was so fascinating, so fearsome, so fucking hot…he had resisted the idea that he was in love with her before they were together, but there was no denying it now. It made him feel vaguely religiously guilty to think about exactly how close to worship his feelings toward Samira were.

He wasn’t sure if this was real love. He wasn’t sure if he’d ever really loved someone romantically like that, didn’t quite know what it felt like. What he did know was that nothing felt like this did, like an obsession, like all the best parts of being onstage without the adrenaline crash. He’d written fifteen songs since he’d started writing for the Pelicans, and twelve of them were about her.

He couldn’t lie and say this morning hadn’t been a little calculated on his part. Not that he had tricked Samira or anything, no, but he had figured the best time to try and face his dad was after she’d fucked some courage into him, and also after he’d told her what he was going to do so she’d ask about it later. No excuses. And anyway, he cared significantly more what she thought about him right now than what his father thought, which could only help.

Which was why, after grabbing a refreshing sandwich to replenish his energy, Sam settled down on the couch with a bottle of nail polish.

It only took two nails before the anxiety started to creep into his veins, but Sam was determined to stay right where he was and finish the job. Kent didn’t seem to be home right now, and that helped—he’d see Sam’s nails soon enough—but nevertheless, Sam had to stop himself from looking up every ten seconds. There would be no panicking today. Samira said she was proud of him and he wanted to keep it that way.

His nails were kind of a wreck right now anyway. He’d kept them trimmed very short since Dad came home, in order to keep from biting them, although that hadn’t always stopped him; and if he couldn’t bite nails, he picked at his cuticles, which were raw and occasionally bled now. Painting his nails would help that, he thought, since he wouldn’t want to mess it up by picking, and Abigail had him putting vaseline on them for a few days now, so they were at least healing.

“What the hell are you doing?” Kent growled.

Sam jumped, nearly dropping the bottle. Mom would not have been a fan of that spill. “Shit—shoot, Dad, I didn’t hear you come in.”

“Been here a while.” Kent moved in front of him, in a confrontational pose, fists half-clenched at his side. “Answer the question.”

He wasn’t doing anything wrong, Sam reminded himself. He shrugged. “What’s it look like I’m doing?”

Kent did not like that at all. Sam felt the disapproval roll off him like a wave. “I’ve never seen you paint your nails before.”

“I stopped doing it for a while,” Sam said, and then chickened out of adding because of you. He wasn’t here to pick fights. “But we’ll be doing another show soon. And I like the way it looks.”

“The way it looks,” Kent repeated, and then trailed off. “It looks like…like—”

“Like what, Dad?” Sam said innocently, switching hands.

“Gay people do this,” is what he landed on.

Sam laughed. He couldn’t help it, in light of this morning.

“It looks like you’re making a statement,” Kent said, starting to get very annoyed. “Is that what you want?”

“My statement is, I think I look cool.” It wasn’t his problem what other people thought, he reminded himself in Samira’s voice.

“Your actions reflect on me, you know.”

Huh. Sam looked Kent in the eye for the first time today, giving him a proper vibe check. His dad wasn’t angry, he was irritated, and disgusted. Maybe a little confused. It was better than Sam feared.

“I guess that’s true.” Sam was nearly done, two more fingers to go. “But I think that means your actions reflect on me too.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Kent demanded.

Oh Yoba. Oh fuck. He felt his heart rate climbing and swallowed. No backing down. No chickening out. “I’ve been here longer than you have, that’s all. I think people know what I’m like. They’re more likely to judge you.”

A bewildered Kent said, “What the fuck is this conversation?”

Sam shrugged again and painted his last nail, his pinky. There. “I don’t know, man.”

He felt his heart thudding as Kent tried to decide whether or not to be furious. It had to be weird, right, to be confronted with this much bluntness from his son, who up to this point had been putting a lot of energy into being extremely normal. Not that this took less energy so far.

“I do still own this house, you know,” he said coldly.

Sam didn’t meet his father’s eye. He was pretty sure he’d quail if he did. “So…do you not want me painting my nails in your house or what?”

Kent was silent for several extremely long seconds while Sam very carefully screwed the lid back on the bottle and took a quick look to make sure there were no smudges. He stared into the endless field of blue, hoping it would be soothing. So far, no luck.

“I don’t care,” Dad said finally. “Do what you want.”

Sam waited until the front door opened and shut to exhale, melting into the couch. That was horrific. Fucking conflict. His heart was still racing.

The fallout of this would be…interesting. And by interesting, Sam was pretty sure he meant terrifying. Chances were good his mom would get involved. Things might go very sour between him and his dad. Then again, things were already not great; Dad just wasn’t currently aware of it.

All that said, the main thing that Sam felt was relief. He’d done it. He’d lifted the veil of normalcy. And he hadn’t even had a panic attack about it. He could…he could do it again, maybe. Good.

There was no telling how this would turn out.

Sam blew on his nails to dry them, so he could go do something else. Guess he’d see.

Chapter Text

“Movie night,” Samira repeated.

She was sitting on Sam’s porch, having just let go of his hand, while the two of them waited for Abigail and Sebastian to come for band practice. She was just keeping him company for a bit, and then she was off to the beach to fish. Now, however, Vincent was standing in front of the two of them expectantly.

“Mom said you should come,” Vincent explained. “We’re gonna watch Ferry to Ginger Island. It’s got songs in it.”

“It’s a musical?” Not exactly Samira’s movie genre of choice…she shot a glance at Sam.

“I think you’d still like it,” Sam said, the very picture of chill. “It took some influence from traditional Fern Island music, so the drums are really good.”

“And your mom wants me to come?” Samira asked both brothers.

“She asked me to ask you,” Vincent explained.

“She’s trying to make things normal,” Sam added, under his breath.

Ah. Samira bit her lip. “I…I don’t know. It’s a little weird.”

“Yeah, cuz like, why don’t people sing out of nowhere like that in real life?” Vincent posited.

Sam chuckled, and it made Samira smile too. “Vincent, do you want me to come?” she asked.

“Yes,” he said decisively. “It’s fun to hang out with you, and you’re Sam’s favorite person besides me, and it’s a good movie.”

“Your parents will be there too, right?” Samira asked Sam.

Sam nodded thoughtfully, as if he was trying to puzzle this out along with her. “Up to you.”

He meant that, and Samira knew he did. It would be weird. Possibly uncomfortable. But Samira was trying, dammit.

“Okay, I’ll come,” she said.

“Good!” Vincent threw up his hands and sang, as if it was a big finish, “I’m happy you’re coming to movie niiiiight!”

And then he immediately dashed back into the house. Samira laughed. “Dude, your brother’s a theater kid.”

Sam snickered. “Tracks. He’s always been kind of a cartoon character.”

Samira let him take her hand again. “Do you have any idea what I’m in for here?”

She watched his smile fall, watched him take a deep breath in preparation. “Uh. No. Like I said, Dad’s kind of been avoiding me since the nail polish thing. But this is one of my parents’ favorite movies. Like, Mom chose it on purpose. He’ll be there for her.”

“Well, how bad could it possibly be for an hour or two?” Samira said, shrugging luxuriously.

“Oh dude, it’s fully like, three hours long,” Sam said. “It’s an old movie. It’s got an intermission.”

“Oh shit.”

Sam stood up and kissed her on the head. “Wear something comfy, it’s kinda pajama-themed.” He let go of her hand to greet Sebastian, who was coming up the walk, with one of those handshakes-plus-hearty-back-slaps that men liked to do.

Samira nodded to Sebastian before standing up herself to kiss Sam goodbye. The coming discomfort filled her with dread, but she was determined to follow Maru’s advice. She was going to be so nice.

*

Jodi took her casserole dish of nacho dip out of the oven, satisfied. This movie night would be perfect. Once upon a time, they used to have movie night monthly when Kent was home, and they hadn’t picked up the habit again yet. But it was time.

Jodi quietly congratulated herself for including Samira, as she put her oven mitts away and retrieved a bowl for chips. She was fairly certain Samira wasn’t going anywhere—at the very least, Samira was fully embedded in Pelican Town’s community structure at this point, and Sam was clearly head over heels for her, so incorporating her into their family structure was the natural next step. This was a good idea.

There was a knock at the door. Darnit, Samira was early. Maybe this would be a little less than perfect.

Her hands were full, but she hurried through pouring the chips into the bowl so she could answer the door—

Not fast enough, though. The door opened, and she heard Kent say, “It’s you.”

Jodi didn’t catch Samira’s response as she rushed out to the living room. “Samira, welcome! We’re so glad you’re here.”

Samira had toned down the formality of her usual regalia in favor of an oversized black sweater with a spooky white tree on it for a dress. She still wore fishnets, though, and her boots and all her necklaces. Jodi thought, on Samira’s personal scale of fashion, that she looked very comfortable.

Samira was also carrying a basket. She’d been holding a carefully blank expression for Kent, but she smiled at Jodi. “Hi. I brought some peaches, I hope that’s okay. They’re already really good this year.”

Jodi clasped her hands together. “What a nice gesture, don’t you think, Kent? I can’t wait to try them. Shall we put them with the other snacks?”

Samira cast a glance at Kent, who had sat back down on the couch, dipping his head in acknowledgement of this statement but otherwise ignoring them. Jodi was briefly worried Samira was going to start a fight or something, but she only said, “Sure, that sounds great.”

Jodi swept Samira into the kitchen with her. She could sense Samira’s unease, and frankly she did not blame the girl. Kent had been dissociating all day. Jodi knew he had a hard time reconciling everything he’d been through with Samira, but if he just got to know her, Jodi knew they’d get along. She was sure that Kent’s dissociation was an attempt to be more or less relaxed for this movie night, and that was a noble effort on his part. This would work out fine.

“Sam’s in the shower,” Jodi said as they entered the kitchen. “He’ll be out shortly. He said something about a milk incident at work.”

Samira pulled a face and put the basket on the counter. “Gross.”

“It was rather gross.” Jodi took a peach from the basket and smelled it. Syrupy sweet and rich. “Oh, these are divine. My goodness, farmer.”

Samira grinned. “And these are the early season ones.”

“I look forward to tasting those later ones too, if you feel like sharing,” Jodi said, pulling out the popcorn popper that she’d had longer than she’d been a mother. Sturdy old thing, even if the plastic was somewhat dingy with age. She took off the cover. “How do you like your popcorn, Samira? I think we have some fun cheese flavor and such to sprinkle on it.”

“I am a classic ‘way too much butter’ fan, personally,” she said, appearing at Jodi’s elbow. She was holding the jar of popcorn kernels and the oil, brought over from where Jodi had left them on the counter. “Movie theater style.”

“Oh, thank you.” Jodi accepted the kernels and oil gratefully and poured the appropriate amounts into the popper. “Wow, I haven’t seen a movie in a theater in ages.”

“Same, it’s like the only thing I miss about Zuzu City.” Samira leaned with her back against the counter. “That and takeout.”

“Sometimes I do miss ordering a pizza.” Jodi put on the cover again and plugged in the popper. It didn’t have an on/off switch, it would start automatically. “You save money, but I sure don’t feel like cooking some days.”

“Tell me about it,” Samira agreed, as the kernels began to pop. “I wasn’t good at cooking before I moved to a town with just one restaurant.”

“We’re lucky Gus is such a good cook,” Jodi said.

“What the fuck is happening?” Kent thundered.

He’d appeared in the doorway like a shadow of death, looking like an animal with its teeth bared, while the temperature in the kitchen seemed to drop instantly. And Jodi couldn’t help it: she froze, silence in the kitchen broken only by the popping corn, and every pop made Kent twitch. “Make it stop!” The only word for this tone Kent had was screaming.

But Jodi couldn’t move, so it was Samira who yanked the cord out of the wall, and stopped the popper about its business.

“What were you thinking?” Kent demanded. “Why the hell would you do that!”

Jodi felt herself shrinking. She said, weakly, “I thought you liked popcorn.”

“It’s not the popcorn, it’s the sound! Don’t you understand?” he ranted. “You scared the hell out of me! I thought we were under fire!”

“Oh,” Jodi managed to squeak.

“How could you be so thoughtless?” he managed, before Samira interrupted.

“Hey,” she spat, and Jodi looked over to find her in a fighting stance. “What are you doing yelling at your wife? Like some kind of an abuser?”

Kent’s fury turned away from Jodi to Samira, and Jodi to her shame was momentarily relieved. He took a step forward, and the relief was replaced by fear again, this time for Samira’s safety. “I am not,” he growled, “an abuser.”

“Not yet,” Samira shot back, like a challenge.

Jodi’s blood ran cold, but this seemed to be the right thing to say. Kent flexed his jaw once, and then sucked in a deep breath, releasing it like the Big Bad Wolf as he turned his back on Samira to face Jodi again. “Please don’t do that again. Or…warn me first.”

“I’m sorry.” The words gushed out of Jodi before she had a moment to think—she had to fix this, and she had to do it now. “It was thoughtless. I need to consider you in my actions more often.”

Kent grimaced. “Jodi—”

“And we’ll just skip the popcorn tonight,” she babbled. “We can have a movie night without popcorn.

“Mom? Dad?” Yoba preserve our lives, Vincent had appeared in the doorway, looking shaken. “Are you okay?”

“We’re just fine, kiddo,” Kent said, and after all that his tone was blessedly normal. “Would you help me find the DVD for the movie? I don’t know where you’ve been putting things.”

Vincent nodded slowly. “I know where it is.”

“Let’s go get it then,” Kent said, as if nothing had happened, and he and Vincent disappeared into the living room.

Jodi let go a breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding and turned to apologize to Samira, only to find Samira doing exactly the same thing. Samira managed to speak first. “Are you all right?”

“Oh!” Jodi was so surprised by the question, it was all she could say. “I…I’m all right. Of course I am. I’m sorry you had to see that.”

Samira ignored this apology. “What’s wrong with him? Is that like, PTSD? Is he in therapy?”

Jodi hesitated. This was not really Samira’s business, but Jodi would be lying if she said she hadn’t had some similar thoughts.

Luckily she hesitated just long enough for Sam to enter, looking about as alarmed as Jodi felt. “What was all the yelling?”

“It was nothing,” Jodi said immediately, turning away from the conversation to the carrots on the counter, which were peeled and ready to be cut into sticks. “Get your milk incident sorted?”

“Uh, yeah,” Sam said, and then, in a lower voice, asked Samira, “What happened?”

“Your dad thought the popcorn popper was gunfire,” Samira said bitterly, and then added, “I failed.”

“Failed what?”

Jodi felt both a little bad for eavesdropping and rather interested to know the answer too.

“I was not nice.”

Oh dear.

“Actually,” Jodi said, not looking up from julienning carrots, “I wanted to thank you. For speaking up for me.”

She wasn’t entirely sure what possessed her to say it. Maybe she was still a bit shaky from being yelled at.

“I guess…you’re welcome,” Samira said, and cleared her throat. “Is he in therapy?”

“No,” Jodi said, which did not feel sufficient. Let’s see. “Perhaps that will be something to talk to him about. Sam, would you get the hummus from the fridge, please?”

“Sure.” The fridge opened and closed, and Sam appeared at her elbow, putting the little package on the counter beside her carefully. “Mom, are we…is this going to be okay? To go through with movie night?”

“Of course it is,” Jodi assured him. She’d make it true. “It will be just like normal.”

“...Okay.”

“Moooommmmmm!” Vincent called from the other room. “Is it full screen or theater? I can’t remember!”

“Full screen, dear,” she called back, and then piled the carrot on a plate and turned toward Sam and Samira. “Full screen has the extra song.”

“Sounds…good,” Samira attempted.

Sam just looked her over, trying to read Jodi’s thoughts.

The only thought she had, she determined, was that tonight was going to be pleasant and normal. “Would you bring some of those snacks into the other room, kids?”

“Sure,” Sam said, and picked up the casserole dish, which was luckily cool now.

“I’ll cut up some of those peaches next,” Jodi told Samira, handing her the carrots.

“Thanks, Jodi,” Samira said, and followed Sam to the living room.

Now alone in the kitchen, Jodi took the opportunity to heave a deep, cleansing breath that was only a little shaky, before putting her smile back on and taking the chips and hummus to the other room.

Chapter Text

Kent was trying to remember what it felt like to be sociable.

Pierre and Caroline were over for a dinner party. Since this was the first one since he’d been back, Jodi had wisely dispensed with the framework of a fancy dinner party, insisting that everyone keep things casual. The kids had followed this prompt to a T—Abigail was wearing jeans that were more hole than denim—and Kent was personally relieved that he didn’t have to spend time wearing a suit or something else that hung off of him.

Even so, Kent was not comfortable. He suspected that Jodi was doing things like this on purpose, begging him to come to worship with her or hosting friends or…having the little Gotoro girl over for movie night. Making him uncomfortable in small doses, to acclimatize him to being home. So far it wasn’t working. Nothing was. It had been months, and normalcy felt like a sick joke, ever distant, unreachable.

Not to mention the incident that was movie night itself, which still made him furious. Granted, begrudgingly he could admit that Samira had been correct, that it was unacceptable behavior to scream at a woman like that, especially his wife. But also…this wasn’t Samira’s fucking business. Meddling little Gotoro hussy.

The rest of the evening had consisted of trying to follow his original plan, which was ignoring Samira and watching an enjoyable movie. It wasn’t altogether successful. Jodi must have opted to try again as soon as possible with a safer option.

Safe, Kent mused, stirring a glass of wine he wasn’t really drinking. He could think of no two more safe people than Caroline and Pierre. Then why did he feel like he was being hunted for sport?

“Luckily, it wasn’t a fungus,” Caroline was saying, in between sips of her own wine. Kent was trying to remember if she’d been this chatty about tea plants before. He did remember her getting chattier with wine. “Just a little sun spotting. Putting a filter on the glass in that spot did the trick nicely.”

“I did say it’s unlikely a Chinese fungal blight would have made its way over here,” Pierre added.

“You did, but better safe than sorry,” Caroline said, in a way that Kent recognized was giving no ground. “In any case, I brought some tea over if we’d like to have that with dessert.”

“I swear, she’s ruined me for any other tea,” Abigail commented.

Kent glanced at his sons. Sam was finishing off what Kent believed was his third helping of scalloped potatoes—painted fingernails flashing like so many mocking little bluebirds—so whether or not he was listening was anyone’s guess. Vincent was listening so hard that he was starting to show strain; how much Vincent cared about dinner parties was a surprise to Kent. Must’ve got that from his mother.

“That sounds delicious,” Jodi said, maybe a little too eagerly. “I’m so excited to finally taste the fruits of your labor.”

“Are you a tea-drinker, Kent?” Pierre asked.

Tea was one of the common offerings at the prison camp where Kent had spent the last three years. He couldn’t imagine it had been good tea—tasted a lot like dishwater—but before that he’d only had tea iced. The idea of hot tea made him feel sick.

“I’ll have to pass, I’m afraid,” Kent said. “Sorry, Caroline.”

“Oh, that’s fine,” Caroline said, her smile going a little forced.

“Why don’t we get that tea started and clear some dishes?” Jodi said, standing. “Kids, you all can be excused until dessert is ready.”

Vince jumped to his feet, rattling the dishware a little. “C’mon, Abigail, we got new karts and stuff in Mario.”

“Oh well, you know I gotta check that out,” Abigail said while Sam chuckled.

“Do you want a hand, my dear?” Pierre asked Caroline, reaching out a hand for hers.

“You’ve been working all week,” Caroline retorted, accepting his hand briefly just to pull him in for a quick kiss. “I insist you relax.”

“You and Kent can talk about whatever men talk about,” Jodi teased them, drumming her fingers on Kent’s shoulder to warn him she was going to grab his plate. Bless that woman. “You two can help us bring things out later.”

“Thanks, sweetheart,” Kent managed, before all the kids were off to Sam’s room and the wives went to the kitchen.

And suddenly he was alone with Pierre.

This was…fine. Kent had to admit that he and Pierre hadn’t had a lot in common even before…everything, but they both tried to be friendly at least, for their wives’ sakes. And Kent did admire Pierre’s work ethic.

“So,” Pierre began, mercifully, because at least the man could fill silence, “have you been following hockey?”

Oh right, sports. Kent used to have opinions about sports. He tried to shake off some rust. “Not much. Didn’t we make it to finals?”

“Short lived, I’m afraid.” Pierre shrugged. “Best that you didn’t see it. It was fairly brutal.”

“Shame,” Kent said, trying to muster up a little team spirit. “At least there’s baseball, right?”

“For all the good Zuzu City is at that,” Pierre joked, and that actually did lighten the mood some.

“I was half hoping I’d come back and they’d have fired the manager or the coach or something,” Kent attempted.

Pierre laughed. “No such luck.”

They shared a little chuckle over the abysmal local baseball team, and Kent felt some muscles uncoiling. “How’s business at that store of yours?” he attempted.

“Not too bad lately,” Pierre said, settling back in his chair and interlacing his hands on his belly. “It was touch and go there for a bit. Joja is a steamroller.”

“Hard to argue with the prices,” Kent commented.

“Oh sure, but it’s easy to cut prices when you have corporate backing and can operate at a deficit,” Pierre said, with a touch of bitterness. “I thought I was going to be priced out, just like all the other neighboring towns.”

“But you’re not?” Kent found himself genuinely curious.

Pierre smiled. “It’s Samira—you’ve met her by now, right? She only shops with me.”

Ah. Kent’s curiosity soured.

“She’s really bringing some industry back to the Valley.” Pierre nodded in satisfaction. “Abigail’s university bills certainly appreciate it.”

How to respond to this politely? Change the subject, perhaps? “How’s she doing on that degree? She was still a kid when I left last.”

“Just fine, if her grades are any indication,” Pierre said, frowning a little. “She’s so hard to figure. She complains that the classes are boring, but I interrupted her in the middle of making a business plan for that band of hers the other day.”

Kent’s eyebrows jumped up. “They’re taking the band that seriously?”

“Evidently.” Pierre shrugged again. “I ought to get around to listening to their CD. Have you heard their music?”

“No, I didn’t know they had a CD.” Why wouldn’t Sam tell him that? Once again, he found himself worrying over how his son presented himself. “I guess they practice in the house, but I can’t stay when they do.”

“Why not?” Pierre asked, with absolutely no awareness of what his question represented.

Kent unclenched his jaw enough to say, “It’s just too loud.”

Pierre nodded thoughtfully. Maybe he was aware of what he was asking, because the next thing he said was, “How are you doing, being home?”

“Fine.” Kent could feel his voice getting gruffer by the second.

Pierre held up an understanding hand. “You don’t have to talk about it, obviously. But you don’t have to spare me the truth, either. It’s work to lie.”

Fuck, it was work to lie. Kent exhaled, and a few more muscle fibers unclenched. “I don’t mean to lie. But no one has any idea here. There’s too much…context. To how I’m doing.”

Pierre nodded thoughtfully. “You certainly don’t seem relaxed.”

Dammit, he was hoping he was hiding it better. Not from Jodi, he could never hide anything from her, but at least trom Pierre and Caroline.

“No,” Kent settled on, and that seemed sufficient for Pierre’s purposes for now.

Pierre was still nodding, now looking about the room. “Would you mind if I gave you some advice?”

“Depends,” Kent said, shifting in his seat. “Is this a sales pitch?”

Pierre smiled. “No such luck, my friend.”

At least he was self-aware. Kent shrugged. “Give your advice.”

“Is there a place in this house that is exclusively yours?” Pierre asked.

Kent frowned. Now this was an interesting question. His bedroom was…shared, the living room was public, the kitchen was Jodi’s domain.

“I see you thinking about it,” Pierre said, with some satisfaction. “Now your home is absolutely lovely, but did you have any say in decorating it?”

“That’s Jodi’s business,” Kent conceded. “I don’t plan on taking up interior decorating, mind.”

“Fair enough,” Pierre said. “I think you ought to be comfortable, though. And the first rule of being comfortable is having a place to return to that feels like yours.”

Now this was a promising piece of advice. “You’re making some good points.”

“Well then.” Pierre rubbed his hands together. “What can we do to make your house your own again?”

“That’s hard,” Kent said, shaking his head. “I’ve only ever lived here for a month at a time.”

“But did it feel different before?”

Kent pursed his lips to think about this. “A little. I certainly felt like the boys were more under control.”

“Well, they were smaller then,” Pierre pointed out. “Sam is all grown up. I imagine he’s becoming a bit of his own man.”

Something inside of Kent cringed. “Yeah, for better or worse.”

Pierre raised an eyebrow. “What do you mean?”

Oh, this was a lot of thoughts to put in order. Kent paused, trying to reshuffle his half-baked feelings into something orderly. “He’s…well, you saw him, he’s dressing more and more like David Bowie every day. Taking on girl affectations.”

Pierre frowned, puzzled. “I don’t see the connection.”

“The person he’s becoming is…” Kent struggled to finish the sentence. Sam was becoming someone who…what? Kent would normally avoid on the street? Who would look with scorn on the things Kent believed to his core? Who mocked Kent’s pain by cozying up to a punk-ass Gotoro girl?

“I don’t like the man he’s becoming,” Kent settled on, finally.

“Ah.” Pierre nodded. “Believe me, I have thought the same thing. More than once.”

“Well, how do you deal with that?”

Pierre smiled, a little sheepishly. “Acknowledging that Abigail takes a lot after me helps. I worry about her being ladylike, sure, but the things she does that get on my nerves are the same things I do that annoy Caroline. It’s easy enough to give grace at that point.”

Kent shook his head. “That’s not gonna work for me. Sam’s always taken after his mother.”

“Are you sure?” Pierre studied him. “He looks just like you.”

Kent frowned. Maybe that was worth considering, but still…

“I think this is off the point some,” Pierre said, waving a hand. “You don’t feel comfortable in your own home. I don’t know how to fix that, I’ve never served. But you know all about tactics and securing a position and such. Surely some of that applies here.”

Hmm. Maybe so.

“Tea for everyone!” Caroline declared, entering with mugs in each hand, setting a cup down in front of Pierre and her own seat.

“Smells lovely, doesn’t it?” Jodi set down her own mug, and then carefully placed one in front of Kent. It was the one with the cartoon frog on it that used to make him chuckle. “In case you change your mind.”

Now, this was really on Kent for not communicating why he was not a tea drinker, but for a moment he wished violently that Jodi could actually read his mind instead of just appearing to.

“I’ll go bring the kids theirs,” Jodi said, leaving again for the kitchen.

Ah, shit, now he was going to have to act the part. Gingerly, Kent lifted the mug to his mouth, trying not to make eye contact with Caroline, even though he knew she was looking.

Smelling the tea was enough to throw a handful of awful images into his mind. Hold. Don’t move. Do not choke.

Hunted for sport in his own house.

No, actually, you know what? He set down the tea, gently but firmly, and pinched the drops of tea off his lips between his finger and thumb. “I’m sorry, Caroline, I drank nothing but tea for the last three years. I can’t stand it anymore.”

Pierre smiled, and luckily Caroline didn’t see it, because she was busy being mortified. “Oh my goodness, I’m so sorry, Kent.”

“You couldn’t have known.” Kent carefully moved the mug far enough away that he couldn’t smell it anymore. There. A little more comfortable.

Chapter Text

It had been a surprisingly good day, Sam thought, a distracted little tangent in his brain from the task at hand, which was making out with Samira by the mailbox of his house. He had been somewhat disappointed to find that his mother insisted on taking the family to an amusement park in Zuzu City on a day he definitely could not get out of work, but then again, thinking about going to a crowded park in the summer with his father made him a little grateful not to have gone. And work wasn’t bad at all today, and he’d started listening to a book about the history of pop music by Kalefa Sanneh—there were whole books about music! Did people know about this?—and that had got him down a rabbit hole of listening to early blues music all afternoon until work was done and Samira could come by.

And now in the failing light of this cloudy summer day, here she was in his arms, so sexy, so cool, smelling like cut grass and hair gel, and with her he felt free and safe and unsurveilled. If this wasn’t love, he didn’t know what love was.

She broke off for a breathless moment to whisper something in Gotoro, which he pretty sure translated to beautiful. It was nice to be called beautiful, especially by the hottest woman on earth, and he trailed some kisses down her neck, his lips coming into brief contact with the cool chains of her necklaces.

She sighed contentedly. “Fuck. How’d I get so lucky?”

He straightened a little to look her in the eye. “You? What about me?”

She slipped her hands into his jeans’ back pockets. “That’s it. I must have you immediately,” she said, which made him laugh. She grinned and then added, “Did you say your family’s not home?”

“Oh, fuck, dude, we gotta get in there,” Sam said, which made her laugh this time. He pulled her hands out of his pockets so he could hold them. “Hey. You know what would be sexy?”

She raised an eyebrow.

“What if you tell me what to do?” It was almost an embarrassing request; definitely not manly. He had to look away when he asked.

“Why is that sexy?”

It wasn’t like Sam had psychoanalyzed his fantasies, but at least with Samira, he knew the answer to this one. “I kinda like it when you’re mean.”

A glance back up to Samira’s eyes reassured him. She was amused. Maybe pleased, even. “I don’t want to be too mean. Don’t tell anyone, but I kind of like you a lot.”

“Just bossy then, maybe.” That’d do it for him.

She considered this. “Like…you’ll do whatever I say?”

“Yeah,” he said, his voice cracking a little. He cleared his throat.

“I like the sound of that,” she said, her face breaking into a wicked grin. She let go of his hands, a cold tone in her voice layered over barely contained mirth like frosting on a cake. “Open your window.” With one hand, she gave his chest the gentlest little shove.

“Oh fuck yes,” he breathed, letting her push him back, making it to the window in three long strides. It was open by the time she was beside him, and he was about to step through, when she tsked.

“No,” she corrected him. “Lift me through first.”

“Anything you want,” he said, scooping her up—Yoba, she was so small—which was a much more elegant operation than usual, since she was expecting it this time. Gently he deposited her inside, and then followed himself. And just in time too, as a few raindrops hit his head and arms.

“Why is your shirt still on?” she demanded when he was through and the window was closed against the rain. “Take it off.”

He did so—fittingly, a Sex Pistols t-shirt—not bothering with the hamper for now, just depositing it on the floor. “Do I meet your expectations?”

“You’ll do,” she sniffed, which for some reason excited him more. She laid a hand on his chest to push him again, this time toward the bed, and this time he let the tiny movement carry him with some force right where she wanted him. He’d barely laid down when she was straddling him, just below his hips, right where he hoped she’d be.

“Take off my shirt now,” she commanded. “And the bra, if you can manage it.”

He was only too happy to comply—her outfit today was a fishnet top over what she had explained was kind of a sports bra. He tangled his hands in the net, carefully manipulating the garment over her hair, and then found the hooks of the bra, gently squeezing them apart. Then he threw them across the room, lost behind his desk somewhere, which was stupid, but they’d find them later.

“Much better, don’t you think?” she remarked curtly, once her clothes elsewhere, her necklaces laid out over her decolletage like a frame for her tits.

“Much better,” he agreed, reaching out to touch.

“Oh not yet,” she said sharply, scooting away down his legs just a little. She unfastened his belt buckle. “Patience.”

Suddenly unsure what to do with his hands, he laid them on the bed.

“Aren’t we eager?” she said, examining the shape pressed against his jeans. She unbuttoned his pants. “You’d better get ahold of yourself, Sam, because this will not be over quickly.”

“Promise?” he said, half joking.

“I would never lie to you,” she said, meeting his eye, and this was a game and meant to be sexy, but it was also entirely sincere. It made his heart swell, among other things. “Now. Is there something you want from me, Sam?”

“Yes,” he said, his voice going raspy with anticipation.

“Then beg,” she pronounced.

Ah, this was what he was to do with his hands, clasp them in front of himself, supplicating to her like a god. “Please, please have mercy,” and then again in Gotoro, “please.”

She took on that same wicked smile. “Good boy. Now, buckle the fuck up,” she said, slipping a hand into his underwear.

He couldn’t help it; he moaned, a loud, slightly strangled moan that he probably would have found embarrassing in any other context, but here with Samira he was safe, and she was uncovering his dick and holy shit yes, leaning her head down—

“Sam!” came his father’s shout from the other room.

Fuck.

There was no time for anything else—Sam had just enough presence of mind to pull the pillow out from behind his head and hold it between Samira and the door before it opened.

Thunder rolled, and Kent stood in the doorway, a storm on his features that matched the one outside, and Sam could feel the panic replacing the warmth in his chest, cold as ice—

No! He couldn’t panic! Samira couldn’t protect him right now, he had to protect her.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” is the sentence that Sam managed, to his great relief, to say.

“I left early,” Kent growled. “I left early to come to my home, where I’m supposed to feel safe—”

“Dad—” Sam tried to interrupt him, sitting up some so Samira didn’t have to hunch over so much behind the pillow—the vibe coming off of her was downright traumatic—

“And I hear my son, who I assume is hurt,” Kent went on, like a verbal steamroller, like a thundercloud, “only to find out he’s getting his rocks off—”

“Fucking Yoba, Dad!” Sam protested, and this interruption seemed to work. Maybe because Sam knew he was turning scarlet with humiliation. “What do you want?”

The fury rolled off of Kent in waves. He threw a finger out at Samira, and bellowed, “I want her out!”

Sam met Samira’s glance to see what she thought about this and froze, just a little, because her eyes were bright with tears. She had wrapped her arms around herself to cover her tits, her fingers pressing hard into her biceps. She nodded, too quickly. She wanted out too.

“Close the door,” he told his dad. “Let her get dressed.”

The measured response made Kent furious. He ducked out of the room, slamming the door behind him.

Samira slid off of Sam immediately, pushing past the pillow, avoiding eye contact. She didn’t say anything.

“Samira, I’m sorry—” Sam said, but stopped when she sobbed. Instead he sorted out his own clothes, not bothering with his belt for now. Fuck. This was bad bad. What scared Samira? What could make her cry? This, apparently.

“Where’s my clothes?” she said, voice wavering.

“The desk,” Sam said, standing, but there was so much shit on and around his desk that there was no way they were going to find them quickly. “Uh—shit. Here.” He snatched his own shirt off the floor—suddenly the Sex Pistols wasn’t so funny—and held it out to her.

She took it and pulled it over her head without thinking, mussing her hair, her makeup starting to streak down her face as tears escaped. She went straight to the window.

“Samira, wait,” he said.

She paused and looked back to him with…resentment. Not for him, he hoped, but still…resentment and shame.

He hadn’t thought of what to say next. She let him flounder for a few seconds before opening the window and crawling out of it, not bothering to close it behind her. Sam watched her go into the rain, desperate to fix anything, helpless to do anything but close the window after her.

This was Kent’s fault, he thought, his fingers gripping the windowsill for dear life. His father had made his implacable girlfriend cry. A ball of rage bloomed in his chest. He stalked across the room and threw open the door.

Kent stood in the hall, looked his son over, and then looked past him. “Is she leaving?”

“She left,” Sam said flatly. “Through the window.”

“Why the hell—” Kent began, but he didn’t get to finish.

“You can’t fucking treat people like that,” Sam snapped, taking a step toward Kent as if he was going to fight him, fight his own father, which was stupid but he was angry. “You can’t treat Samira like that!”

Kent gave him a look of infuriating condescension. “I’m sorry, whose house is this?”

“I fucking live here too!” Sam sputtered.

“You live here rent-free,” Kent corrected. “I paid for this house. This is my house. And I get to decide who comes in and why.”

“You’re not going to control my sex life, I’m a fucking adult!”

“You’ll do what I say while you live here, Samson!”

“Or what!”

“Or you can leave!”

Sam’s breath caught in his throat. He hadn’t expected the ultimatum. Then again, it was better than a fistfight. As angry as he was, his father would probably win that one.

“Fine,” he said, turning back to his room.

“Samson,” Kent said, his tone a warning, but Sam slammed the door shut and locked it, a feature he hadn’t needed to use for years, and yanked a duffle bag out from under his bed.

*

The irony was not lost on Samira, walking ashamed and rain-drenched and exhausted and wearing a shirt that was big enough to use as a dress and a half, that she probably looked pretty gothic right now.

All the tears were spent. There hadn’t been many to begin with, but even so, she was sure her makeup was melting all down her face. She’d just felt so…helpless. Emily was right, the goth look was an expression of her true self—and apparently being naked was the opposite. She needed the outfit and the makeup and the black, she needed someone to give her fucking permission to be bossy, because without all that her confidence was nothing, her quick wit was gone, and she was a damsel in distress. Or worse, a slut, chased out of the good boy’s house so she wouldn’t corrupt him. If she was truly as badass as all that she wouldn’t have been so fucking scared.

She was mad at Sam, but she couldn’t even put words to why. For not standing up for her? She hadn’t asked him to—she hadn’t even asked him to help her leave, he’d just…known.

No, she wasn’t mad at Sam, she was mad at Kent. Furious, in fact, and…humiliated.

She certainly wasn’t going back to that house again. And it was going to be difficult to look Sam in the eye after this. She didn’t know how to face the fact that her boyfriend’s dad would be perfectly happy if she was dead. How did he stand to live there?

Only under great stress, she knew. But still.

Lightning cracked, thunder rolled, and the rain was coming down in sheets. Samira shivered. Almost home, and then she could take a hot shower and pass out in bed. Maybe then some of the loud static of swirling emotion in her head would sort itself out.

“Samira!”

Sam’s voice called from somewhere behind her, and despite the dread in her stomach, his voice lifted her spirits. Damn that man. She didn’t turn around.

“Samira, wait.” His voice was closer, and he sounded out of breath.

Fuck. Samira squeezed her eyes shut. Ignoring him wasn’t the move. He deserved better than that. But she couldn’t for the life of her think of what to say.

She turned around.

Sam was running through the rain toward her. He had a duffle bag over one shoulder and had replaced the shirt Samira was now wearing with a red hoodie. He skidded to a halt in front of her and said breathlessly, “I left.”

The statement made no sense to her. “What?”

“I left my house,” he explained. “My dad said it was either I left the house or I left you. And here I am.”

Samira frowned, trying to make sense of this. “He kicked you out?”

“Only if I didn’t give you up,” he said, taking her hand. “I’m not going to do that, Samira.”

She shook her head. “But your family. You can’t just—”

“I can too,” he retorted, almost happy now. “Samira, I…I love you.”

Oh fuck. Not now, not when she couldn’t formulate a sentence, not when her feelings were so complicated. Not when she’d just been the most vulnerable she’d ever been.

She took too long to answer, and Sam looked sheepish. He cleared his throat. “You don’t have to…say anything, I know it’s all been…a lot. I know you wouldn’t lie to me.”

Say something. Say anything. Say even the most impulsive thing she could think of, just so long as it was words, Yoba dammit. Coward.

“Uh, I think I’m gonna go to Sebastian’s for tonight,” Sam went on uneasily. “We can…talk or whatever you want tomorrow—”

“Fucking hell,” Samira managed, raking her free hand into her hair. “I…fuck.” She switched to Gotoro. “ I love you.”

Sam frowned quizzically. “You’ve said that before.”

“Yes,” she said, and then said it again. “ I love you. Don’t you understand? I love you.”

Sam searched her. She knew he was reading her frustration, her confusion, her sensory overwhelm. That’s not what she wanted him to see. “What does it mean?” he asked

“It means…” C’mon, coward. What was a little more vulnerability at this point? Of all the people to be naked around, Sam was the only one who was safe. “I love you.”

Maybe that was all she could manage. It was the part that mattered, anyway.

The truth dawned on Sam. “You’ve been saying that for weeks.”

“I know,” she said, and bit her lip.

“You didn’t tell me…” he trailed off.

“Too scared,” she said. “I’m sorry.”

He didn’t hesitate; he drew her into his arms, and the spell of shame was broken. What had she been so afraid of, anyway?

“Come home with me,” she told him. “It’s probably about time anyway. If you’re not going back.”

“Okay,” Sam said into her hair.

Hand in hand, they disappeared into the curtains of rain toward the farmhouse.

Chapter Text

“Sam.”

Sam was awake with a fist drawn back before he knew what had happened, but froze when he realized the voice was Samira’s. He opened his eyes.

Luckily she was out of fist range. She was leaning back, in fact, fully dressed in shorts and a t-shirt that featured some kind of screaming ghost that had been deconstructed along the seams and tied back together.

“Aw fuck,” he said, dropping his fist and rubbing his eyes. “Sorry.”

She looked a little bemused. “You have a fight response? To waking up?”

He was panicked suddenly—he didn’t want to scare her. “Fuck. I’m really sorry.”

“No, it’s okay,” she assured him, his panic draining away. “I’m just glad I didn’t try to wake you up by kissing you.”

Sam released a huff. “I don’t know what I would have done.”

Samira chuckled. “We’ll try it sometime.”

He rubbed his face with both hands. “What time is it?”

“Just after six,” she said.

Sam groaned. “That’s not a real hour.”

“Right?” she laughed. “I have farm chores to do, I just didn’t want to be gone when you woke up.”

Sam doubted he would have woken up anytime soon, but he still reached out an appreciative hand to her. “Thank you.”

She took his hand and squoze it. “Love you.”

The simple statement, said in such casualness, sent a thrill into his core. “Love you too,” he said, and she smiled and left.

Blearily, Sam lay back in Samira’s bed. They’d come in from the rain last night freezing, clinging to each other, and hopped in the shower together. Not even in a sexy way, just trying to get some warmth back in their bones. It felt like washing off the night’s awful stupidity.

It’d been forever since he’d slept this good.

He drifted back off to sleep.

*

Samira wiped the sweat from her forehead. Chickens fed, eggs collected, crops watered, a scant few weeds removed. She should probably bring in another load of peaches—that tree was thriving—but that could wait until tomorrow.

Now all that was really left today was dealing with the man in her house.

She paused at the door, wondering if she’d dug herself into a hole. Samira loved Sam—she was finally ready to admit and embrace the fact—but loving someone and living with someone were two different things. And she wasn’t an idiot, she knew that Sam was easygoing to the point of laziness. The man hadn’t had any real responsibilities in his life, as far as she could tell. Farm work was hard. Had she just gained a very expensive ornament?

That was if he even stayed. If Kent apologized, would Sam go back home?

Could she stay with him if he did?

Samira exhaled slowly and took off her work gloves, leaving them on the hook she’d installed by the door for just that purpose. Maybe she was getting carried away. Living with someone was always hard at first. If it got harder—if it was the end of a relationship—well. At least they would have tried. Even if that thought made her guts squirm.

She opened the door, prepared to wake him up (maybe at a distance), and instead found him at the counter with Moon, both of them staring at the toaster.

“Hey,” he said, lifting a hand but not taking his eyes off the toaster. He was still wearing what he’d slept in, a Judas Priest t-shirt and boxers.

Samira couldn’t help but smile at this tableau. “What are you doing?”

“Showing interest in his hobbies,” Sam said, and right on cue, the toaster popped, Sam snatched the waffles out of the air above it, and Moon scrambled off the counter and raced out of the room. Samira laughed, delighted.

Sam grinned and deposited the hot waffles onto a plate that Samira hadn’t seen before. “Go wash your hands, I’ll get everything together.”

Samira realized with some surprise that the table was set—not like, fancy or anything, but there were two mugs and two forks, and only one plate—ah, but the other one was in Sam’s hand. Samira moved to the sink to follow Sam’s direction, admittedly a step she consistently forgot.

“Okay, so I can’t believe I don’t know this,” Sam said, setting down the plate and reaching back across to the counter again to put two more waffles in the toaster, “but are you a coffee or a tea person?”

“Coffee,” Samira said in surprise. “Shit, I don’t know what you are either.”

“I like ‘em both,” he said, wandering over to the coffee pot. “Where do you keep the beans?”

“Oh, I set it up before I went out.” Samira shook the water off her hands and dried them on the hand towel. “It’s ready.”

“Fuck yeah, you’re so smart.” Sam grabbed the mugs from the table and poured coffee. “I couldn’t find any syrup or anything? Do you do peanut butter on waffles or something weird like that?”

“That’s not weird,” she snickered. “But yeah, I got syrup. I got the good syrup.”

The little domestic movements felt so natural. Samira felt herself marveling. This was a good sign, right?

They were well settled in to eat when Sam said, “So what did you mean yesterday? When you said it was about time I came home with you?”

Samira paused to consider. She’d meant a lot of things, only some of which she had tried to put words to. “I don’t know. I think I expected things to escalate at one point or another.”

Sam grimaced. “Have I apologized yet?”

“And what exactly did you do?” she said, more flippantly than she felt, because spending any time remembering that horrible moment yesterday made her want to claw her skin off.

“Still, I never wanted my dad’s shit to affect you.”

Samira paused to consider that the last time they’d had a conversation like this, she’d assured him that she could take care of herself. Which did not seem to be true under those particular circumstances. Community strikes again.

“Mostly like…I wanted to figure out what this means going forward,” Sam said carefully. “Like. Do you want me to pay rent, or—”

Samira snorted; she couldn’t help it. “Nah, dude, I own this place outright. I don’t even have a mortgage to pay, my grandfather paid it off years ago.”

Sam’s eyebrows jumped up. “Oh fuck.”

“Right?” Her own relief had felt a lot like that when she first moved here. “If you want to help pay bills or do farm work—”

“I do,” Sam said, then paused. “I don’t really know how to do farm work? But I can do housework, like I know how to clean stuff.”

Admittedly this was Samira’s least favorite part of owning her own house, but it gave her pause. “You wouldn’t find that…I don’t know, emasculating?”

“Housework is still work, even if no one is paying you to do it,” Sam said, as if reciting something. “Cleaning is most of what I do at Joja anyway.”

“Well shit, okay,” Samira said, kind of impressed with her boyfriend.

He nodded, satisfied, and then ate the last bite of his waffles before saying, “If we’re doing this, like, really moving in together…I want to do it right.”

That was better than Samira hoped for. “What does that mean to you?”

Sam leaned back in his chair, stewing on an answer. “I guess…I don’t want to fuck it up. This is your life and I’m just walking in here, so…”

He trailed off. Samira was reminded of something…What was it?…

The stardrop fruit.

“Hey, look.” She reached out and took his hand, hoping hers wasn’t sticky. “Like…the farm is home, sure. But so are you, okay? You’re one of the only people in the world who makes me feel really safe. So…the farm should be your home too.”

In the morning light streaming through the windows, Sam smiled and looked golden. He lifted her hand to his mouth and kissed it. “I love you. Like, a lot.”

“I love you too.” Her chest felt fit to burst with the feeling. She gave his hand a squeeze and released it. “I guess we should get your stuff, then, right?”

“Oh shit, my stuff.” Sam rubbed the back of his head. “I forgot about the moving out part.”

Moving sucked. Samira grimaced. “I don’t know how much help I’ll be. I don’t…really…want to go back into your house.”

“Not my house anymore,” Sam said mildly, standing up. “I’ll text the band. And Penny. Maybe we can borrow Pierre’s van. Where’s my phone?”

“Check the bathroom?” Samira suggested, taking another bite of her waffles. She wondered idly if Sam knew anything about cooking. She certainly didn’t. Maybe they could learn together.

“Yep!” Sam called back, and reappeared with his phone in hand. “Shit, we really need to get my stuff. I think I forgot my charger.”

“Can you use mine?” Samira asked.

“Nah, different phones.” He sat down at the table again and started texting. “Better make this twenty-one percent count!”

Samira laughed. This was the beginning of something good.

*

penny lane: Oh my goodness.
penny lane: Of course I’ll help. Do you need more hands? I can bring Maru as well.
penny lane: I am proud of you, though. This is a big step.

*

cherry bomb: holy fuck

lord gaga: i cant believe u really did it

cherry bomb: i can’t believe you’re asking us to help you move, that’s like real adult shit

lord gaga: ur not packed or anything rite

cherry bomb: do you need boxes? i can get you boxes

lord gaga: probably the van. ill help u load boxes

cherry bomb: sweet, then we can head over together! i’ll make sure my dad’s cool with that. this afternoon, right?

lord gaga: …
lord gaga: marus coming too

cherry bomb: probably because of penny right
cherry bomb: ;)

lord gaga: sam come back

Chapter Text

Vincent woke up with his head full of roller coasters. Praise Yoba or whatever.

Yesterday had probably been the funnest thing ever, he thought, leaping out of bed and pausing to reset all his sheets and covers, because he knew Mom would appreciate it. He was finally tall enough for roller coasters, and neither Mom or Dad liked roller coasters, but they still took turns riding with him on every single one, and twice on his favorite one, the wooden coaster. Dad had to leave early, which was a bummer, but Vince and Mom had bought a huge funnel cake and eaten it messily and then rode all the non-coaster rides until the rain shut down the park. And then they’d gone to get greasy fast food burgers, which Vincent never got to have, and it was maybe the best day of his life.

It might have improved with the addition of Sam, Vincent considered. Then again, he liked being an only child for a bit. Maybe he and Sam could go to the park another day, and this time Vincent could go on the drop ride or the haunted house with someone who wouldn’t be scared.

Now it was time for Breakfast And Cartoons, Vincent thought cheerily, putting his pillow back in place. Summer was the best.

He padded from his room toward the kitchen, and paused. Mom and Dad were talking in their room. Mom was saying, “...Sam was last night? I noticed he didn’t sleep in his room.”

Aha, Sam wasn’t home. Probably a sleepover at Sebastian’s house again. Which meant his poptarts were unguarded.

With devious glee, he grabbed a chair from the kitchen table and lifted it to put it in front of the sink. Not scooting it, which would make a noise. He carefully climbed on top of the chair, which was a little wobbly, and reached into the cupboard. Score.

Soon, he reflected, putting the chair back, he would be tall enough for both roller coasters and the top cupboard. It was too risky to put the poptarts into the toaster, so he just took a plate so he could eat them cold, and crossed the house back to his room. Cartoons were in the living room, so they could wait; he’d just play his handheld video games until the evidence was eliminated.

“Kent, what the hell did you do?”

Vince froze. Mom was swearing.

“Don’t I have a right to feel safe in my own house?”

“You have lost the plot, sir. You chased your own son away!”

Vince frowned. Sam?

“Well, if he’s going to choose that girl over—”

“Kent, forget Samira! Were you going to discuss this with me at all? Were you even going to bring it up?”

“If he wants to be grown-up so badly—”

“You bastard, why the hell didn’t you tell me last night!”

This was getting scary and confusing. Vincent fled to his room.

Video games forgotten, Vincent sat in the middle of his floor, thinking harder than he’d ever thought. Sam…left? And Dad made him go? And then didn’t tell Mom? Vincent could have told him that was a stupid idea. You always told Mom, it saved trouble later. And now she was so mad she was swearing. He’d never seen her so angry.

Sam left? Where did he go?

Vincent knew he was too young for a phone, but he wished for one anyway. He really needed to talk to Sam, to make him explain and make sense of all this.

The poptarts were gone too soon—and not really even enjoyed properly either—so Vincent needed to decide what to do next. He hesitated a long time before figuring that he should at least bring his plate to the sink. Once he’d forgotten a plate in his room and the whole place had become infested with ants. Another example of why it was best to tell Mom things right away, Dad.

It was hard to do the right thing, Vincent considered, heading back to the kitchen, where he could hear Mom doing dishes. But you had to do it anyway. And sometimes you had to come up with a new way to do it, like Heracles and the Nemean lion, but something in the world had to be sharp enough to cut the lion’s hide, even if it was the lion’s own claws. There was always a way to do the right thing.

Mom didn’t look around when he came in. He carefully laid the plate in the soaking side of the sink without saying anything.

“Thank you,” Mom said, without sounding like she really meant it. Vincent wasn’t a human lie detector like Mom or Sam, but he could tell she was still upset.

“Where’s Dad?” Vincent asked.

“I don’t know,” she said uncharacteristically. Almost sarcastically. She was mad mad.

Vincent retreated to his room to get some real clothes on. He opened his window to check if it was going to be nice out and was greeted with the warm fragrance that promised a hot day. Good. He threw on some clothes, decided he was going to “forget” to brush his teeth unless someone told him to, and left his room again to try Sam’s door.

Locked. That never happened.

Plan B, then. Vincent left the house out the front door and went to Sam’s window.

It was heavy, tough to open, but at least it stayed in place when Vincent lifted it. He scrambled into Sam’s room.

Everything looked pretty normal. Vincent closed his eyes and remembered what it looked like when he’d been in here two days ago, and then opened his eyes again.

A few things were out of place. One of the amps under his bed had been yanked askew, and it was pretty dusty, so Vincent presumed it wasn’t one of the ones Sam used for band practice. One of his drawers was open in his dresser, too; Vincent took a peek inside. It was a t-shirt drawer, and there were several shirts missing. Sam’s bed wasn’t made, but that was the chore that Sam always “forgot” to do. All of his other stuff was still here, though. His computer was still on even; the light on the monitor was green.

Ah, there was one surefire way to tell if he was really gone.

Vincent looked over his desk carefully for the battered spiral-bound notebook where Sam wrote his songs, and then looked for it on the dresser, on the bookcase, on the floor beside the bed. Not here.

Just to be sure, Vincent left via the window and closed it behind him, and then reentered the house, checking the coffee table, the side tables, the bookcase in the living room, Mom’s desk, and then the kitchen table. Nothing.

Vincent like he had reached the first drop of a roller coaster. Sam was gone.

*

“Vincent?”

Vincent looked up from what he was doing, miserably rereading a book from the library about ancient myths and legends, laying on his bed. He couldn’t decide whether to ask someone what was going on or to go out looking for Sam himself, and in his indecision had ended up doing neither. He didn’t know what it meant that Sam was gone. He didn’t know whether it meant forever or not. He didn’t even really know why, other than it had to do with Samira and Mom was majorly ticked off about it. So he went back to a story that made sense.

Now, however, Mom was poking her head into his room. She seemed less angry now. “Can we talk to you for a minute?”

The “we” was curious. He had heard another conversation between his parents a little while ago wherein he couldn’t make out any of the words, but their tones seemed more measured than before. He closed his book and left it on the bed, following his mom out to the living room.

Dad was on the couch; Mom settled beside him, and held out a hand to the other couch for Vincent to sit. He did so, folding his hands in his lap like he was at school.

“So,” Mom began, in her normal cheerful tone, “we have some news. Sam is going to be taking a big step in his life. This afternoon, he and his friends are going to move him out. He’s going to live with Samira.”

Horror washed over him like a wave. It was forever. Sam was gone forever and he was leaving because he was in love with Samira, and Samira was nice but what about Vincent?

“Why?” Vincent blurted.

Mom pressed her lips together and turned to Dad. Dad moved his jaw around like he was chewing on the answer, and then said, “Sam is twenty-two years old. He’s an adult. He couldn’t stay here with us forever.”

“Why not?” Vincent demanded.

“He chose to go his own way,” Dad said mildly, as if that were a small matter, as if it wasn’t a betrayal.

Mom inhaled sharply. “Kent.”

“We did decide to tell the truth, didn’t we?” he said. His tone reminded Vincent of the warning roll of thunder at the amusement park yesterday.

“I believe I said ‘facts,’” Mom said, her voice stilted.

“I don’t see the difference.”

Mom’s face tightened in a way Vincent was pretty sure he’d never seen before. And then she smiled at Vincent. “Honey, could you go to your room for a bit? Or go play outside? I think we aren’t quite done with our discussion.”

Vincent got up and went back to his room without a word. He shut the door softly, then promptly dropped to his stomach to listen at the crack at the bottom.

“The difference, Kent,” his mother said, hardly waiting for his door to be closed, “is that Sam would have never made that choice so quickly if you hadn’t made it an ultimatum.”

“You aren’t listening to me. You keep ignoring the reason I did it.”

“I can’t think of any reason that could possibly justify kicking your own son out of the house.”

“I want to feel safe here, Jodi! I want to come home and relax, for once. I want to be comfortable in my own house!”

“You cannot possibly expect me to believe you are scared of Samira.”

“If you’d seen what I’ve seen—”

“Kent, Samira is a very young person, who is native to the Republic, and a pious Yoba-worshipper, and a dedicated farmer, and a pillar of this community.”

“You wouldn’t think she’s so pious if you saw—”

“Oh I do not want to know what you’re about to say.”

“I know her type, that’s all. She’s conniving.”

“Kent, you are being bigoted. You are in fact being such a bigot that you alienated your own son.”

“He didn’t have to leave!”

“You are not the good guy in this narrative!”

“Woman, do not call me racist.”

“What would you call it then?”

“My house, my rules!”

“Oh! Your house!”

“I paid for it!”

“And who took care of it all these years? When collectively, over the course of your leave, you have spent less than two years living here?”

“You haven’t had a job since—”

“Housework is still work, even if no one is paying you to do it! You used to agree with me about that! This is also my house, and Samson is my son, and how dare you make this decision without me!”

Mom did not yell like this ever. It was the scariest thing Vincent had ever heard.

“I knew you wouldn’t understand.”

And Dad’s tone had never sounded more like Vincent. Like an angry child.

“I suppose that’s why you didn’t mention this last night,” Mom responded. “Tell me, Kent, is feeling safe worth sacrificing a relationship with your son? Because that’s what’s at stake here.”

“Sam wouldn’t—”

“We’ve raised that boy to stand up for what’s right and stick to his guns. He absolutely will cut you off. Because you are in the wrong here.”

They were quiet for a long moment, long enough that Vincent noticed that the floorboards here were kind of dusty.

“How the hell do you suggest I feel safe here, Jodi? Hm? Tell me that.”

“Maybe you should ask a therapist,” Mom said coldly. “I’m sure I don’t know.”

“Jodi—”

Footsteps—she was coming to Vincent’s door. Quickly he rolled over to a lego set he was trying to put together a few days ago and picked up the biggest piece as if he had just added to it.

And just in time, as she opened his door. She opened her mouth to say something and then frowned. “How did you get so dusty?”

Oh shoot. Uh—not a lie, she’d clock a lie— “I think I should sweep my floor.”

Mom looked down. “Ah. Good thought.” She looked back up again. “Anyway. Your father and I can’t seem to come to an agreement, so I think you’ll have to ask Sam your questions.”

There was a pit in Vincent’s stomach that had been slowly growing over the last few minutes. Now he was pretty sure it was the size of a basketball. He looked away from his mom. “Okay.”

“Do you want your door opened or closed?”

“Closed, please.”

“All right.” Mom left, shutting the door behind her, and Vincent slumped, dropping the mess of lego.

So. Dad had made Sam leave because he didn’t like Samira. Which was messed up—Vincent would have to look up the word “bigot” later, although he could guess from context what it meant. So Sam was doing the right thing by leaving. Even though it was a very difficult right thing. Because it meant leaving Vincent behind.

And everyone was mad about it.

The pit in his stomach grew.

*

Vincent watched the assembly of Sam’s friends in front of their fence from his window. The van arrived first. Sebastian, Abigail, and Miss Maru got out, opened up the back, and loaded their arms with cardboard boxes.

Then Miss Penny arrived. Vincent loved Miss Penny, even if she was assisting in a betrayal. Miss Maru put down her boxes to greet Miss Penny with clasped hands.

Sam came not long after, along with Samira. He went through and thanked every other person one-by-one, with hugs or handshakes or grateful words that Vincent couldn’t quite hear.

Then there was a moment of quiet, where they were all six lined up in front of the house, ready for the task ahead. Solemn and strong, almost beautiful. Jason and the Argonauts.

And then Sam took a deep breath and walked up to the house, and Vincent went to the door to let them in.

Sam hadn’t even knocked when Vincent opened the door. Vincent loved opening the front door to let people in, even if today’s purpose was not a good one. Sam looked down and immediately grimaced. “Hey, Vince.”

“Hi,” Vincent said, moving aside to let them in. “Your door is locked.”

Vincent meant it as an accusal, but Sam just went, “Oh, right, uh—hey, Sebastian, can you climb through my window and unlock my door?”

“What?” Sebastian complained.

Abigail laughed. “I got it.” She disappeared from behind Sam.

Sam turned his attention back to Vincent. “You seem mad at me.”

This was news to Vincent, but it was, as he searched his heart to discover, correct. He nodded silently.

Sam nodded vaguely, watching as his friends trooped in (except for Samira, strangely), listening to the window opening in the distance and then Sam’s door opening as well. “Uh. We should…we should have a talk about this. I mean it, it’s important to me that—well, you’re important to me. So I want to talk about this.”

Vincent could see the “but” coming.

“But,” Sam said, predictably, “we have to pack up my whole room. And it’s going to take a while. Can you wait until after?”

Waiting was horrible. All of today had been horrible. And after yesterday had been so good too… “Promise?”

“I won’t leave without answering all your questions, I promise,” Sam said.

“Okay.” Vincent didn’t like it, and it was going to be horrific, but it was probably the right thing to do. “Can I hang out with you while you work?”

“If you help a little, yeah,” Sam said.

Mollified for now, Vincent straightened up and followed Sam to his room.

His old room.

Maru and Penny were already taking the books, papers, and knick-knacks off Sam’s bookshelf, setting them into boxes. Maru stood up, frowning. “Sam, how do you want to cushion the breakables?”

Sam pondered this for a second before turning to his open t-shirt drawer and grabbing a handful of cloth. “Use my clothes, I gotta bring those anyway.”

Miss Maru nodded approvingly and took the t-shirts.

Abigail and Sebastian had started with the biggest amps under the bed, which was probably because they used them for band practice. Sam interrupted, “Actually, Seb, can you help with my computer? Vincent and I can do the amps.”

Sebastian nodded shortly, grabbing an empty box and bringing it over to Sam’s desk. Sam took the amp Sebastian had abandoned, and Vincent figured he couldn’t lift a big one like that, so he grabbed the little one that had been pulled askew instead and prepared to follow Sam out to the van.

“Hey, dude,” Sebastian said, and lifted a black bra from behind the computer tower.

More on impulse than anything else, because bras were a terrifying grown-up girl thing, Vincent looked away, so he could see with perfect clarity how Penny blushed and giggled, Maru raised an eyebrow, Abigail cackled, and Sam turned beet-red and mortified. “Dude! Not in front of my brother!”

“I’m mostly confused by the placement,” Sebastian snorted.

“C’mon, let’s get these amps outside,” Abigail said merrily, and Vincent hastily followed her out to the van. “You have to admit that was funny, Sam.”

“Yeah, we’ll see what Samira thinks,” Sam scoffed.

Vincent considered carefully if the curiosity he was feeling balanced out the cringe. Hard to say.

They made it outside to find Samira outside talking to Mom, who was holding a pyrex container of some kind.

“I told you, you’re not the one who needs to apologize, Jodi,” Samira was assuring her. “It’s all right.”

“I still feel awful about the whole situation,” Jodi began, and then stopped before she’d finished the thought. “Hello Abigail. Sam.”

“Hi Mom,” Sam said, as if this was a normal day, going straight to the back of the van to set down the amp. Abigail and Vincent did the same. “Samira, you still good to arrange things in the back?”

“No problem,” she said, making her leisurely way around to him. Mom trailed after her.

“Cool, thanks.” Sam turned around sharply and headed back to the house with Abigail following behind. Vincent hung back.

“I don’t suppose Sam would reconsider,” Mom said, as Samira climbed inside the van and lined up the amps in the back.

“That’s up to Sam,” Samira said, without making eye contact with Mom. “But I doubt it.”

“Well, then…” Mom looked very uncomfortable. Finally, she held out the container to Samira. “Here. Brownies for the two of you.”

Samira frowned. Standing in the van, she was taller than Mom, maybe as tall as Sam. She crossed her arms. “You’re not going to butter us up. This went way too far for that.”

“I’m not trying to,” Mom assured her. “Consider it a housewarming gift. I…understand. I really do.”

Samira softened a little, and hopped out of the van to stand in front of Mom, gingerly accepting the container. “...Thanks, then.”

Mom smiled, and turned back to the house.

Vincent had been hoping that the smell of brownies earlier today had been for his benefit, but it turned out that this, too, was about Samira.

Actually, that anger he was feeling wasn’t just for Sam. Vincent took a few hesitant steps toward Samira as she opened the passenger side of the van and placed the brownies in the seat. “Hey Samira.”

She turned around with some alarm. “Oh—Vincent. Hi.”

“Hi,” Vincent said, and then stopped, because his thoughts were all mixed up and he wasn’t sure what he wanted to say. This was relatively new. He always used to know what he wanted to say.

Samira, for her part, was twisting up her face in all sorts of shapes. Maybe she was trying to decide what to say too.

Finally she landed on, “Are you okay?”

This was a surprising question. One that people usually didn’t ask him. Maybe because most of the time, he was okay? Food for thought later. For now, though, he just shook his head.

“Don’t make me guess what you’re thinking, here, okay?” Samira said, leaning back against the van all casual. “You can tell me, if you want.”

Ah, now the sentence had appeared, along with an embarrassing catch in his throat. Don’t cry. “Why…why are you taking Sam away from me?”

Samira winced. “Shit. Um…it’s not like that.”

“What is it like, then?” Vincent demanded.

She took a huge deep breath in and out, her hand floating up to her spiky hair while she did it. “Uh…okay. So. Sam loves you, yes?”

“Yes,” Vincent answered, with certainty.

“He loves me too,” Samira said. “Different, of course. Like, I’m his girlfriend, so it’s different. But you guys are brothers. You’ve known each other your whole life. I can’t compete with that.”

Vincent frowned, but this did make sense.

“And I’m not trying to,” she assured him. “I can’t replace you. Sam will never love you less. Even if he’s somewhere else.”

“But he doesn’t have to be somewhere else,” Vincent insisted. “I don’t understand why my dad thinks he has to leave. I don’t get it.”

Samira pressed her lips together. “Vincent, I’m about to say something that’s gonna sound like a mean question, but I promise I just want to know. Is that okay?”

Suspiciously, Vincent nodded.

“Did you expect you guys to live in the same house together forever?”

Vincent had to look away. The tears in his throat were welling up to his eyes now. He was such a dumb kid, to not have thought of that question, but the truth was he’d never even considered it.

“I’m sorry for the way this all went down,” she said, not unkindly. “I really, really am. But if Sam and I stayed together…chances are good this would have happened eventually. I’m sorry you didn’t get any warning first.”

Vincent didn’t stay to hear any more; he ran inside, and shut himself in his room.

*

It was much later when Sam knocked on Vincent’s door. Vincent had cried, and then had felt miserable for several minutes after that, and then had felt bored with his own misery and finished that lego build he’d been working on. It was a star destroyer from Star Wars, and two days ago Vincent had been incredibly excited for it. Now finishing it gave him no satisfaction. Maybe he’d take it apart some and start over tomorrow.

If tomorrow was better. Tomorrow there would be no Sam.

But Sam was here now, opening his door a crack and putting one single wiggling finger through, to make him laugh. It didn’t work, but Vincent appreciated the thought.

“Come in,” Vincent said, putting the star destroyer on his toybox.

Sam did, dropping the goofy finger and matching Vincent’s solemnity. He joined Vincent cross-legged on the floor. “We’re all packed up. The others are bringing the van, though, so I can stay and talk for as long as you want.”

Vincent nodded, but didn’t really know what to say. The world felt kind of flat and strange, the way it did when you’d cried until you couldn’t anymore.

“Samira said you talked to her a little,” Sam offered. “She was worried she’d hurt your feelings.”

“No, she just said something true that sucked.” Vincent knew he sounded like the world’s saddest orphan or something, but he couldn’t help it. Samira was telling the truth, which Vincent did appreciate technically—she never talked down to him, ever—and her words were the most cutting thing he’d ever heard. It was all a lot. It was worse than Mom swearing.

“Sounds like it sucked a lot.”

Vincent looked up at his brother. Sam was this legendary presence in Vincent’s mind, the human lie detector, strong and cool and a rockstar, funny and nice. Everyone liked Sam. He was like a hero.

“I don’t know what I’m going to do without you,” Vincent said. He was almost grateful he couldn’t cry anymore. “It’s like…I think it’s gonna be quiet, and lonely, and weird. And Mom and Dad have been fighting all day.”

“They have?” Sam frowned.

“Yeah, because Dad didn’t tell Mom that you left,” Vincent explained. “And Mom thinks it’s stupid that Dad made you leave anyway. She called him a bigot.”

“Holy shit,” Sam said, which he had not meant to say, because he tried not to swear in front of Vincent. “Vince, I…I didn’t know they were going to do that, I’m sorry I left all that to you.”

Vince shrugged, and then an idea occurred. “Can I go with you?”

He watched his brother consider this before shaking his head. “I don’t think so. That…might count as kidnapping, actually. You can come stay with us sometimes, though.”

Vincent sighed. “Okay.”

“Are you going to be all right?” Sam asked.

Vincent shrugged. “It’s not fair.”

“Nope.” Sam heaved a sigh of his own. “Not to you or me. Or Samira. Or Mom, even.”

“What am I gonna do?” Vincent pleaded with him.

His brother considered, and then grabbed the book off his bed, the one about mythology. “Can you be brave?”

Vincent wasn’t sure he’d ever needed to be. “I don’t know.”

“I bet you can.” Sam handed him the book to him. “And if you need to get out of here, you can come straight to the farm. Anytime you need to. And I’m gonna see you a bunch, too.”

That helped some. Vincent clutched the book tightly. Doing the right thing was hard. “Maybe I’ll be okay, then.”

“Okay.” Sam leaned forward and hugged his brother, squishing him. Vincent wished he wouldn’t stop, but he did eventually. “Is it all right if I go home?”

Vincent nodded, even though it wasn’t, and then got to his feet. “I’ll walk you to the door.”

“Thanks, kid.” Sam mussed his hair.

*

Vincent had sat through an icy silent dinner with his parents, saying nothing, pretending he was Odysseus trying to escape the notice of the cyclops. That worked okay.

Afterward, without saying anything at all, Dad went to the living room and started a movie—oh, the old Jason and the Argonauts, the one from the sixties or whatever. Mom didn’t join them.

They watched in continued silence. Vincent had seen it many times before, so he just let the movie wash over him.

The movie was almost over—it was the best part, the skeleton fight—when Dad said, “You haven’t said a single thing in hours.”

Vincent glanced at his father, who was staring with such intensity that he immediately had to look away. “I guess.”

“C’mon,” Dad said. “Yesterday it was ‘hey Dad’ every two minutes. What’s on your mind?”

Hm. Vincent thought about Heracles cleaning Augeas’ stables. A new way to do the right thing. But he had to be careful, and smart.

“How come you don’t feel safe in the house?” Vincent asked.

Dad’s lip twitched. Whether it was in annoyance or anger, Vincent was unsure. “Where did you hear that?”

Vincent shrugged. It wasn’t like he’d heard it twice today and it made a lot of Dad’s actions made a lot of sense or anything.

They watched the skeletons scream at the heroes as the fight began. Dad spoke again when Phalerus fell. “You know a lot of bad things happened to me while I was a prisoner of the Gotoro Empire.”

It wasn’t a question, even though this was the clearest explanation of his father’s experience Vincent had yet received. “Yes?”

“Even though I’m here, it’s hard to feel like I’m here,” Dad said, and then shook his head. “That doesn’t make any sense. It’s like, I am trying to believe that bad things will stop happening, but I can’t. I can’t believe I’m safe most of the time. And anything can set it off—a sound or a smell.”

“Or Samira?” Vincent suggested.

“That’s a different issue,” Dad grumbled. “I don’t know what that girl’s doing to Sam, but it’ll all end in tears.”

“What she’s doing to Sam?” Vincent screwed up his face in confusion.

“She’s in his head, changing him,” Dad said.

Vincent shook his head. “Sam hasn’t changed.”

The second half of that sentence, you have, Vincent left unspoken. Dad looked him over carefully, but didn’t say anything else.

On the screen, Jason leapt into the water to escape the horde of skeletons.

Chapter Text

“So where are we going?” Sam asked.

Samira did not know how to answer. “Just…go with me on this.”

They walked into town, past the bus stop where Pam was climbing into her seat. She waved, and the two of them waved back. “When did the bus stop get fixed?” Sam wondered.

“About two weeks ago,” Samira muttered. It had been expensive, the most expensive offering the junimos asked for—she wondered what they were doing with the cash. Building infrastructure? Bribing state officials?

“Penny mentioned something about Pam getting her old job back,” Sam said thoughtfully. “I hope it helps her.”

Samira hadn’t thought about that aspect of this particular junimo gift. It was true, Sebastian had mentioned offhand that Demetrius was happily busy lately with the water and ore testing he did, between the quarry and the sudden influx of precious metals in the rivers. And that greenhouse had been great for off-season produce; Pierre loved being able to have it in stock, and apparently the rest of the town loved it too. And those minecarts were a life-saver. The junimos were helping—helping Samira, helping everyone in the valley. Which was…impossible to explain.

And yet, here she was, leading her boyfriend to the derelict community center. So she could explain. It had been a couple weeks now of living together and it had been wonderful, but she had more than once found herself scrambling for an explanation of why she was planting this or desperate to ask Maram about that without saying the word “junimos.” It wasn’t just a weird antisocial thing she did anymore, it was a secret, and it was too heavy to carry on her own.

“You’re nervous,” Sam observed, as they made their way up the stairs on the hill toward the building.

“Extremely,” Samira said, without thinking about it.

“Are you breaking up with me?” he joked.

She snorted. “No.”

“What are we doing, then?”

Samira bit her lip before eking out, “I don’t know how to tell you except to show you.”

“You’re making me nervous,” Sam said, and that wasn’t a joke.

“I’m sorry, it’s just…” Samira trailed off as the building loomed.

It was just visual proof of the existence of fairies. It was just the truth about Samira’s actual contributions to the valley, which were minor in comparison to what the junimos had accomplished. It was just a concept that Samira had never quite convinced herself wasn’t crazy.

It was just laying herself entirely vulnerable at her boyfriend’s feet.

They reached the door of the community center.

“It’s just that this is a lot,” Samira said, with the caution of an explosives expert. “And explaining what you’re about to see—what I hope you see—will make me sound crazy.”

“Try me, dude,” Sam said, taking her hand encouragingly.

Samira winced. Could she do that? Trust Sam—trust herself—enough to tell the truth?

“I’ve been…helping someone fix up the community center,” she said finally.

“Like…Robin? Or the mayor or someone?”

“Noooo, not…not quite.”

Sam wore a puzzled frown. “Are you like…are you like scared of this person?”

“People. Sort of. And…a little, but they’re not dangerous, it’s just…”

Sam searched her face with his gaze and then set his jaw. “Show me.”

In relief, Samira opened the door and pulled her boyfriend through.

The place was nearly perfect now. One corner of the main hall was still occupied by the junimos’ little hut, but the roof was fixed, the fish tank was intact, there were no more plants growing through the floor, and the various rooms looked immaculate. The only sore spot left was that bit by the ancient bulletin board, where advertisements more than ten years old had been abandoned by the older—or at least, the adultier adult—members of the community. Samira took a deep breath. Hopefully that would be fixed today.

“Damn, this place is looking great,” Sam said, releasing Samira’s hand so he could explore. “Last time I was here was like…before you came, I guess, Sebastian and I broke in to smoke a joint.”

Despite her nerves, that squeezed a laugh out of Samira. “Sebastian’s got a weed hookup?”

“Yeah, but he doesn’t share anymore,” Sam said, peering into the empty fish tank. “He doesn’t want Abigail to start.”

“He really doesn’t see her as an adult, does he?” Samira scoffed.

Sam straightened. “It’s hard, you know? She was still in middle school when Seb graduated.”

“I just think it’d do him good to get over that,” Samira said, rolling her eyes. “He’s so weird about women sometimes.”

Sam acknowledged this with a nod. “And then it’d do us good, cuz we could all get blasted together.”

Samira laughed. “Like friends should.”

“Exactly.” Sam grinned. “For fuckin’ real though, you helped put this together? It looks great in here.”

“Well…I didn’t do any of the building part,” Samira said, trying to muscle through the nerves as they came back. “Um…ugh. Whatever.” She shook her head. “I’m just going to do it. Please keep all questions ‘til the end.”

Sam raised an eyebrow. “Okay?”

“Okay.” Samira retrieved a truffle from her backpack. It was wrapped skillfully in brown paper, just as Maram had sold it to her—Samira knew that pigs dug up truffles, but she’d only just got the hang of the chickens, and adding another animal, especially one as big as a pig, seemed like too much for her at the moment. Samira unfolded the brown paper just a little, to expose the dark brown flesh and release a little of the pungent smell. “Um. Hi, guys. This is for you. I think it’s the last thing you asked for.”

“What is that?” Sam said, coming closer to look, apparently forgetting that he’d agreed to leave all questions until the end. “Who are you talking to?”

“It’s a truffle, and…” Samira hesitated. “You’ll see.” Gingerly, she laid the truffle at the door of the little house.

“Samira,” Sam began, but she waved a hand to shush him, and he fell silent. They watched the truffle.

It was less than thirty seconds, which felt like nine or ten years, when the junimo poked its little face out of the house and took the truffle.

Sam sucked in a huge breath. “The fuck is that?”

Samira stayed silent as the junimo waved one little arm in thanks and took the truffle into the house. Accepted. She exhaled, which is when she realized she’d been holding her breath. “Junimos.”

“Fucking what?”

A forceful poof of air by the billboard indicated that it had been fixed, and the wallpaper behind it, no doubt; Samira didn’t need to look, but Sam immediately wheeled around to see it. “Oh my fucking Yoba—”

And then something new happened.

With a strange little pop pop pop, the room filled with junimos, and Samira screamed, and Sam screamed, the two of them shrinking against each other back-to-back, surrounded on all sides.

“Thank you!” one of the junimos warbled, in that language of theirs that Samira understood thanks to the fucking wizard in the woods, and then it said in English, “Bye!”

“Bye! Bye! Bye!” said the others, their adorable little voices filling the air, but as quickly as they appeared, they were gone—

And so was their little house, replaced by a comfortable sitting area.

Samira tried to move, but she couldn’t, frozen, watching for further junimo activity, clutching a handful of Sam’s shirt in both hands behind her. Sam didn’t move either; his hands were protectively on her hips.

After a silence of approximately eight hundred years, Sam whispered, “Hey, Samira?”

“Mhmm?” Samira eked out.

“Were those fucking junimos?”

“Do you see why I was worried you’d think I was crazy?” she said, carefully releasing her hold on his shirt.

“I think I might be crazy.” He let go of one of her hips and pivoted to face her. “What the fuck is happening? Junimos fixed the community center? That’s insane.”

“I have been losing my damn mind about it for like a fucking year, so thank you for saying that,” Samira said, the relief in her veins like a drug. “Like I fully thought I was hallucinating the first time. Because it was right after I had heat stroke.”

“Dude, I don’t even know what to do with this information,” Sam said, wide-eyed and maybe genuinely distressed. “Fairies are real?”

“I know!” She gripped Sam’s arm, maybe as much to steady herself as him. “It freaks me out, but it’s true, and I don’t know what to do about any of it except…”

He waited for her to finish the sentence, but she couldn’t. “Except what?” he said, voice wavering.

“Be grateful?” she squeaked.

He huffed, taking a couple of near-panicked breaths before saying, “I guess?”

“Dude are you good?” she led him over to the couch, suddenly concerned.

“Yes, yeah, I’m fine,” he breathed, deliberately heaving a few slow breaths. They sat together on the new couch, which was delightfully comfy. “Holy shit.”

“Yeah.” She let go of his arm to interlock their fingers. “Can I just say though? Huge relief to not be the only person who knows about this.”

“Yeah, I can fuckin’ imagine,” Sam agreed, giving her hand a squeeze. “What a thing to carry.”

The two of them sat in silence for a moment. Samira couldn’t help but admire the finished community center. It was beautiful, made of sturdy materials and carefully crafted, not a thread or speck of sawdust out of place. The junimos hadn’t skimped.

“I was thinking we could get some cool fish to put in the aquarium,” Samira said, apropos nothing. “Like if I can find a puffer fish? Obviously it’ll take some upkeep, but maybe folks who are interested can sign up? And there’s a whole craft room over there, I bet Emily could teach classes. It’s good for kids to learn how to sew, you know, and Penny says she doesn’t really have time for like, Home Ec or whatever. Shit, I’d learn. Oh, and there’s a pantry too, I bet we could do some really cool community outreach—like Yoba knows fucking Lewis doesn’t actually have any social programs in this town, but I bet we could start one. You know?”

She looked up to meet Sam’s eye, and found him gazing at her with fondness that nearly knocked her flat. “What?”

“You’re incredible,” he said, and his tone made her melt. “Honestly.”

“Shut the fuck up,” she scoffed, nudging his arm with her shoulder.

He grinned. “You know, this would make a good event space too.”

“What do you mean? What kind of events?”

“Like, town meetings, civic stuff,” Sam said, releasing her hand so he could stand up. “Or hosting tours of speakers or musicians, or an open mic night…” He spread his hands out, envisioning each event. “Or—oh, like a dance!”

“A dance?” she laughed.

“A Valentine’s dance, or like a prom if we ever get enough kids in town for that again,” he said, spinning around to face her. “That’s what spaces like this are for, right?”

“I guess.” She lounged back in the couch a little, content to watch the show. “I think I told you once, I kinda think school dances are stupid.”

“Ours were fun,” Sam said. “You gotta go with the right people.”

“Who was your date?” Samira asked. “Penny?”

“Obviously yes,” Sam laughed. “What about you?”

Samira paused, old high school resentment popping up its head to say hello. But today was about being vulnerable.

“I never went,” she said finally. “Nobody ever asked me. I know I could’ve gone with friends, but…it seemed pointless.”

Sam considered this carefully, which was better than what Samira feared he’d do—laugh at her or agree that she was unloveable or something. Then he dug his phone out of his pocket and unlocked it, tapping around for something. “Do you know how to waltz?”

“Uh…” Not the question she’d expected. “I…I think I learned in a gym class at some point. Three-count, right?”

“Right.” Sam found what he’d been looking for and offered a hand. “Then can I have this dance?”

“Are you serious?” She didn’t take his hand yet, skeptical, cringing a little. “Do you have some fucking like…Beethoven queued up?”

“Beethoven kind of started the Romantic movement, actually,” Sam said, dropping his proffered hand to put his phone on the bookcase by the couch. “You’re thinking Classical. That’s when waltzes got popular. But also, no. You can waltz to anything in 3/4 time.”

Samira hesitated. “I’m probably not going to be any good.”

“Dude, I just want to dance with you,” he said, and extended his hand again.

Samira bit her lip, still hesitating.

If she was going to be vulnerable, it’d have to be a choice she made again and again. Which was terrifying and daunting, like it already made her exhausted, but for Sam…

Maybe for Sam, she could make that choice again. And again.

She took his hand, and he pulled her close and tapped something on his phone, leading her into the steps just as the music started. It took her a moment to figure out what her feet were supposed to be doing, and then it took her a moment longer to recognize the song. “Are we…waltzing to the Goo Goo Dolls?”

“Anything with a 3/4 beat, babe!” Sam said gleefully, and twirled her before she realized it was happening, and then she was back in his arms. “Also, you’re a better dancer than Abigail.”

She laughed, a little pleased. “Who taught you how to waltz?”

The slightest blush visited Sam’s cheeks. “My mom.”

“That’s still not as embarrassing as gym class, I promise you,” she told him. “Like, I know they make you take gym to train kids for the military or whatever, but it sucks even more on top of that.”

“Is that true?” Sam demanded.

“Yeah dude, it’s military-industrial complex all the way down!”

“Man, I can’t wait until we graduate,” Sam said solemnly, which made Samira crack up…

And for once she let the moment take her, spinning as she heard Sam singing, almost to himself, And I don’t want the world to see me, Cuz I don’t think that they’d understand…

“I love you so much,” Samira said.

“I love you too,” he said, and dipped her like a fucking princess and kissed her.

Maybe, Samira thought, dances weren’t so bad after all.

After that song was “Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds,” and then “Somebody to Love,” and “Times They Are A-Changing,” and whatever else Sam could think of with the right rhythm. At some point Samira knew she would have to tell the town that their community center was fixed up and open to whoever wanted to use it, but today it was hers, and Sam’s, a perfect oasis in time and space, a gift for believing in fairies. Vulnerability had its perks, it seemed.

“Hey,” Sam said, dancing to Depeche Mode’s “Dressed in Black” after she’d requested something goth, “if junimos are real, do you think aliens are real?”

“Oh, shit, dude,” she laughed.

They were there until the sun went down.

Chapter Text

Kent had been dissociated, scared, lost, temperamental, and grieving at intervals since he’d been back, but until the day his son moved out, he hadn’t experienced a truly foul mood. Now it had been fifteen days of stormy anger and frustration, and the forecast was not looking promising. Which of course made the buzzy little headache that was his constant companion worse.

Jodi was refusing to speak to him. Every time he tried, she interrupted to ask if this was an apology, and when he asked what he needed to apologize for, she just said, “You can’t think of even one thing?”

He knew what she was getting at. He’d been dismissive of her work and acted like a tyrant. He wasn’t sorry for chasing out Samira, nor for forcing Sam to make some life choices, but there were better ways to go about all of it. He’d lost his head.

Sam hadn’t spoken to him either. Not a word. If they saw each other in town, Sam looked through him and kept walking, as if he was the ghost he often felt like. He was haunted by what Jodi had told him, that Sam wouldn’t hesitate to carve his own father out of his life if he thought Kent was in the wrong. Sam was misguided and clearly thinking with his dick, but Kent didn’t enjoy his son’s scorn and disappointment.

Vincent worried him too. The kid was usually talkative and hyperactive and not altogether concerned with academics, but lately he’d been significantly quieter around Kent, thoughtful and cautious. More than once, Kent had caught him staring, curious and concerned, before hastily looking away or coming up with a question that Kent suspected he was making up on the spot.

Surveilled in his own home. Ignored and haunted. In pain with nothing to distract him. Was he a man or a fucking ghost?

In an effort to actually speak to someone, he’d sought sympathy from Pierre.

*

Pierre paused in the middle of moving a fifty-pound bag of flour, which overbalanced him a little. He hastily put it down. “Good grief. Those are always heavier than I think.”

Kent took the next bag and placed it carefully on the display, half pleased at how easily he did so. He’d been filling out some in the months since he came home, but he still felt like a scarecrow most of the time, so it was nice to know his muscle mass wasn’t completely wasted away. “How come you only stock five at a time?”

“I actually have about thirty more in the back,” Pierre said, placing the last bag on the stack with care. “Ordering minimums, you know. But this looks more artisan. And people aren’t out buying this much flour every day. It creates a little urgency.”

“Evil genius,” Kent commented, standing back to observe the shelf.

“Marketing is a bit like that, isn’t it?” Pierre laughed. “It works, though.”

It was nice talking about nothing at all, but Kent had come here for a purpose. “Anything else need moving? I want to know what you think about this situation I’ve got at home, but if there are things that need done first…”

Pierre hesitated. “We…can talk about it, sure.”

Kent raised an eyebrow. “What’s the problem, Pierre?”

“Well, mainly I think that if you want my honest opinion, you’re not going to like it,” Pierre muttered.

This grated on Kent. “I can handle disagreement. Do you think I can’t handle disagreement?”

Pierre didn’t respond, his mouth a hard line, which absolutely answered the question.

Kent crossed his arms. “I’ll listen. Whether you agree or not. I came here for advice, after all.”

Pierre didn’t look convinced, but he wandered back to his spot behind his counter, inviting Kent to follow with a wave. Kent settled on the counter’s customer side, waiting while Pierre collected himself.

Finally, Pierre said, “My honest opinion is that…if anyone had treated my daughter like you treated Samira, I would punch him in the face.”

Kent leaned away, shocked. “Are you kidding?”

“I am most certainly not kidding,” Pierre said, straightening up. “You humiliated her, Kent. And your son as well. It’s not just the embarrassment—that was downright villainous behavior.”

“Villainous?” Kent demanded.

“It’s the only applicable phrase I can think to use,” Pierre said. He shook his head. “I can’t make sense of it. You wouldn’t do that to any other young lady in the valley. And frankly, you’re lucky her father…well, I don’t know her father, but any respectable father would give you something to think about. Or, try anyway. I’m surprised Sam didn’t take a swing at you.” Pierre considered Kent carefully. “I’m sure you would win, of course.”

Kent was hurt. Pierre was supposed to be on his side! “I thought you would understand what I’m doing here.”

“Kent, it seems blatantly racist,” Pierre said. “If it was Abigail or Penny you’d caught Sam with, would it be the same?”

“Racist?” Kent demanded.

“I said what I said, you treat her differently because of her background,” Pierre said stubbornly. “That’s racist.”

“You don’t know what I’ve been through,” Kent said darkly.

“I’m afraid that’s not an excuse.”

“I was doing what you suggested!”

Now it was Pierre’s turn to be taken aback. “Surely I didn’t tell you to utterly humiliate my single best customer and produce supplier.”

“You told me to make my house my own,” Kent said, pointing a finger at Pierre.

“I meant redecorate, or build a man cave or something,” Pierre scoffed. “Please, Kent, see sense. You treated Samira very poorly, and Sam as well.”

To his surprise, Kent wasn’t all that angry. Outraged, maybe, at being called out, but not angry at Pierre. “I suppose you think I should apologize.”

“I think that’s the least of what you should do,” Pierre said, rearranging the box of candy bars on the counter so it was neater and looked more full. “What’s Jodi got to say about it?”

“She’s giving me the cold shoulder,” Kent grumbled.

“I don’t suppose she approves of what you did either.”

“Seems that nobody does!” Kent threw up a frustrated hand.

“You’re not stupid, Kent, maybe you can take the hint.” Pierre stopped messing with the candy bars and huffed. “There, that’s about all the frankness I have to offer today. I’ll have to go back to being a salesman now, if you don’t mind.”

“That’s about all I can take anyway,” Kent muttered, tucking his hand back into the crook of his crossed arms. No, still not angry. In fact, he felt a little relieved. Maybe he’d already known what Pierre was going to say. It was just that no one else had been speaking to him for two weeks.

Kent considered his friend. He had guts, Kent had to give him that, to tell someone exactly how wrong they were acting. It took integrity. And grit. Not that Kent liked hearing it. Not that he expected any different, if he was really honest with himself.

Maybe he’d done wrong.

“You’d really punch someone in the face?” Kent said, after a while.

“I daresay I would!” Pierre pushed his glasses up on his nose and threw back his shoulders.

“Have you ever been in a fight before?”

“No, but I think I could hold my own.” He stuck up his fists, bouncing a little on his feet.

Kent snorted. “Not with a fist like that. Get your thumb on the outside. And move it over, you’ll jam it if you—there, that’s a fist that at least won’t shatter on impact.”

Pierre tested the flat of his fist on his other hand. “Ah, I see now.”

“Gonna take up prize fighting?” Kent said dryly.

“Caroline does keep telling me I need a hobby.” Pierre grinned.

*

“Jodi?”

“Is this an apology?” Jodi asked the sink full of dishes automatically. She would not be brooking arguments from a man too stubborn to see the consequences of his actions. She’d show him consequences.

“It is. I’m sorry.”

The casserole dish she was scrubbing nearly slipped out of her hands. Easy, Jodi, easy.

“Sorry for what?” she pronounced.

“Ah, it’s…for uh. Saying what I said about the house. It’s barely my house, really. I knew that. I was angry about it, is all.”

Jodi carefully scrubbed the little bits of detritus in the corners of the dish that the dishwasher wouldn’t touch. “You know how much I do for this household?”

“I do,” Kent said. “It was…asshole behavior to act like I didn’t.”

Jodi slid the lower rack out and laid the casserole dish carefully on its side in the dishwasher. “Well. There’s no call for foul language.”

“After everything I said, you don’t think I earned ‘asshole?’”

She looked at his face finally, worried about what to expect. His face was soft, though, softer than it had been in weeks. He meant the apology.

“Maybe a little,” she admitted, reaching back into the sink to load up whatever didn’t need scrubbing, so she could face him. “Anything else?”

“A few things.” He drew himself up straight, like he was at attention. “I didn’t treat Sam fairly. Need to apologize to him for that.”

“And Samira?” she prompted, pausing with a cereal bowl in her hand.

Kent hesitated, which prompted her to sigh, and turn back to the sink to take a whack at the pan that contained Vincent’s recent attempt at making an egg.

“I don’t understand why you like her so much,” Kent said, after a silence so long that Jodi thought he might have left.

“She is a bit quirky. Prickly, maybe.” Jodi gently scraped the pan with the spatula Vincent had used. “But under that, she is kindhearted. She has been very sweet to Vincent and Jas. She’s helped Pam—you know Pam’s a bit of a lush, but she seems to be doing better—and Pierre, and Robin. Marnie says she’s even helped Shane a bit.”

“Huh,” Kent said.

Jodi didn’t look up yet. “It doesn’t seem to be a performance, either. I think she just helps because…it’s the next thing to do. She has integrity. And you didn’t see the farm before she got ahold of it—she’s got a sort of fortitude that I think is very impressive. Grit, really. What’s not to like about that?”

Now she looked up, to see how this was received, and found Kent frowning into space, puzzling over this statement.

“I don’t understand why you don’t like her,” Jodi prompted.

“You don’t see what she’s doing to Sam?” Kent asked her, very quickly. As if it had been top of mind. Interesting.

Jodi proceeded with caution. “I have seen Sam changing a little, but what I have seen is positive. He’s more focused and driven than before.”

“But the way he acts toward people—the way he dresses—”

“I think that the way he dresses probably has more to do with the band,” Jodi risked an interruption. “That started before he was dating Samira. He pierced his ears the week before.”

“You don’t think he did that to impress her or something?” Kent asked.

“That doesn’t sound like him,” Jodi said, placing the newly liberated pan alongside the casserole dish. “I think he’d do a lot for Samira, but I think he is still his own. And as far as his attitude, you haven’t been here. That’s not a new development.”

Kent bit a hangnail off his thumb. Thoughtful.

The last of the block of ice she’d encased her heart in melted away. She loved this man, trusted him with everything, even after all this.

“What are you seeing that I’m not seeing?” she asked quietly.

Kent rubbed the back of his head, sighing. “I don’t see anything. That’s the problem. It’s hard to be sure of anything.”

Even after all this time? Jodi wanted to demand. After all the work I’ve done? What will it take?

That wasn’t reasonable, though. She had no idea what Kent had been through. He needed professional help, not just love, because love was not therapy.

She loaded the last few dishes and rolled the racks into the dishwasher. There was already detergent in its place, so she shut it and turned the dial, sliding off her gloves.

“Did you hear that the community center is going to open again?” she said, hanging her gloves up to dry.

Kent frowned. “That place has been closed for years.”

“Apparently, Samira fixed it all up,” Jodi said, drawing closer to Kent, but letting him be the one to reach out and take her hands. “They’re having a party tomorrow to celebrate. The whole town’s invited.”

“I guess you’re going to say we should go,” Kent sighed. “I doubt I’ll be welcome.”

“Everyone’s welcome,” Jodi assured him, with optimism that even she had to admit was a little much. “Vincent will have fun. And a community center is good for the whole town. Won’t you at least consider it? See what Samira’s done?”

*

Someone had made punch for the occasion, and Kent thought it was rather good, sipping it as he wandered the rooms of the community center. He’d been in here before…what, ten years ago? When they first moved to the valley? And the place had seemed shabby even then.

Now, though…the community center looked like it belonged in a magazine. Not in a “look at this hip new architectural trend” kind of way. Maybe as a backdrop for a Martha Stewart photoshoot or something. Cozy. He honestly wouldn't mind spending time here. Even here amongst the crowd—if you could call the residents of this town a crowd—he didn’t feel all that paranoid.

This place felt homey. That’s what this feeling was. How had Samira managed that?

He hadn’t seen her yet. He’d seen Sam, briefly, who turned away without changing his expression at all.

“Could I have everyone’s attention, please?” called Mayor Lewis from the main hall. “Gather ‘round, everyone.”

Kent emerged from the hall and found his wife in the lobby, along with Caroline and Pierre. He lifted his drink to them. “Good turnout.”

“I think just about everyone’s here!” Caroline said, beaming. “Isn’t this nice?”

“I haven’t been here in ages,” Pierre said, nodding. “It’s very nice.”

“Samira did such a good job,” Jodi said.

“Quiet down folks,” Lewis said, sounding like a well-meaning substitute teacher, and Kent half-turned to face him. Samira stood beside him like a spiteful crow. She looked uncomfortable, and not least because her outfit involved a lot of spikes. “Right, I think I speak for everyone when I say that this place has never looked better. Even when it was new! The whole town owes you a debt of gratitude, Samira.”

“Hear hear!” said Emily from the hallway that led to the craft room, and an awkward little smattering of applause broke out in the assembled townsfolk.

“Right,” Lewis said, apparently thrown off by the interruption. “So it’s my pleasure to present to you, Samira, the highest honor Pelican Town can bestow: the Stardew Hero Award!”

The applause that broke out here was more pronounced, as Lewis produced a trophy from behind him that certainly looked impressive. Samira took it, looking it over.

Reluctantly, but making the conscious effort because he’d promised his wife, Kent wondered what Samira was thinking.

“Lewis, am I the only person who’s ever gotten this award?” she said finally.

Kent, to his surprise, had to suppress a laugh.

“Let’s all show our appreciation to Samira!” Lewis said hastily, and the crowd clapped and cheered, while Samira shook his hand.

Until out of the applause came one loud slow clap, a sarcastically long-pausing slow clap, performed by…

A man Kent had never seen before in his life.

“Well,” said the man, with a smugness that instantly raised Kent’s hackles, “is this where all my customers have gone?”

“What do you want, Morris?” Samira bit into what promised to be a long monologue.

The man known as Morris shrugged luxuriously. “I want profits, as usual. And this…well, this undercuts those profits, so pardon me if I don’t feel like celebrating.”

Pierre’s posture changed, and Kent noticed for the first time that his friend had his fists clenched. The right way.

“Well don’t ruin our party, then,” Samira scoffed.

“Why not?” Morris said loftily. “You ruined mine.”

“How does it feel!” Pierre burst out, stepping up to face Morris.

“Pierre!” Caroline called, but Pierre was already toe-to-toe with Morris.

Morris grinned. “Ah, Pierre, is it? Are you still in business?”

“No thanks to you, you corporate pirate,” Pierre snapped.

Hm. Kent carefully put his drink down on the bookcase behind him and very casually moved to stand behind Pierre.

“It doesn’t matter,” Morris said dismissively. “I’ll just run a sale. That’s the benefit of being a corporate pirate, Pierre, deficit spending.” Morris leaned in, his smarmy smile inches from Pierre’s face. He had to lean down. “How long do you think you can last under those circumstances, hm?”

Kent saw what was coming before Morris did, in the way Pierre changed his stance and drew back his fist, and Kent had planned to stop his friend, because not having a police force in Pelican Town was just an excuse to get state police involved, but apparently his body had other plans—

He froze.

Pierre’s fist hit Morris’ nose with a crunch, and Morris immediately clutched his face, howling, “How dare you! You barbarian!” Other people were shouting too, Caroline screeching Pierre’s name, and Pam shouting to give him another one.

Kent willed his feet to move. They did not.

Pierre was drawing back to hit again—grit, Kent thought—when Samira appeared, putting her hands up in front of Pierre, placing herself between the two of them. “He’s so not worth it.”

At this, Pierre seemed to think twice, and lowered his fist.

“I could press charges, you know,” Morris was saying, blood starting to run out between his fingers. “In fact, I think I will.”

Kent caught the look in Samira’s eye—cold steel anger—before she turned around to face Morris. “Shut the fuck up, Morris, you know full well that was provoked.”

“Oh, I’m not sure that’s what the police will say—”

“I said,” Samira spat, taking a step toward him like an omen, “shut the fuck up. Look, as much as I’d like to watch Pierre take you out the old-fashioned way, I don’t think we need to.”

“And what do you mean by that,” Morris hissed wetly.

“I mean that this place is for the community,” Samira said, unflinching. “And Joja’s not. It never has been. So if the community center is stealing your customers, then that’s a moral good as far as I’m concerned.”

“Your little community center isn’t enough to drive Joja out of business,” Morris said, with condescension that made Kent want to clench his fists too.

“Maybe not the entire mega-corporation,” Samira said with a shrug. “But in Pelican Town? I think we can manage a boycott.”

“A boycott?” Abigail gasped from off to one side, where she stood with Sam and Sebastian, sounding thrilled by the prospect.

“Well you can count me in,” croaked George from his wheelchair.

“About time,” said a cowboy-looking man Kent hadn’t met yet.

“I’ve had about enough of Joja, myself,” Gus added.

“You can’t boycott!” Morris said, seemingly shocked by the very notion.

Jodi drew herself up straight and made Kent proud. “The heck we can’t!”

“No more Joja,” added Robin, stalwart.

Morris spotted Shane in the crowd, standing with Vincent’s little friend, Jas. “Surely the loyal employees of Joja—”

Shane promptly covered Jas’ ears. “Fuck you, dude. I quit. Effective immediately.”

“Yo, me too!” declared Sam excitedly. “That’s so weird, I guess I’m going to have to call out sick indefinitely.”

“We can’t let them treat Joja like this,” Morris insisted.

“Who’s we?” Shane pronounced acerbically.

“Morris, this is really embarrassing for you,” Samira said, matching the man’s condescension. “Just go. While you still can.”

Now Kent found his feet unstuck. He stepped forward to stand beside Pierre, and Morris, searching for a friendly face, found no sympathy with Kent. Morris faltered, and then turned and left.

Pierre sighed as the door shut behind Morris, and shook out his hand. “That hurts quite a lot actually, I thought you said I wouldn’t hurt myself.”

“I said you wouldn’t break your hand,” Kent said.

“This is embarrassing,” Pierre said, looking up to address the onlookers. “Thank you, everyone. This means…well, it means a lot to me.”

“It’s nothing,” Samira assured him, and turned away. “Is there any punch left?”

“Plenty of punch if Pierre has anything to say about it!” Sam cracked, causing a laugh to ripple through the room. The assembled crowd began to dissolve, and Caroline and Jodi appeared, fussing over Pierre.

“Don’t ever scare me like that again,” Caroline said, clutching Pierre’s punching hand for dear life. “Although that was very…well.”

Pierre smiled at his wife. “I think I’m interested in hearing you finish that sentence.”

“Oh, you stop that,” Caroline scoffed, and Jodi covered her mouth to giggle.

“You going to be all right?” Kent asked.

“I’m sure I will,” Pierre said, and cleared his throat. “Makes a man choke up to have a whole community supporting him.”

“It’s deserved,” Jodi assured him. “Kent, dear, are you all right?”

There went his wife, knowing things even Kent himself hadn’t picked up on yet. “I think I need some air. Join me?”

“Certainly.” She hooked her arm in his, and together they went out to the front of the building, to the little courtyard with the stone bench. They sat, and were quiet for a while.

“What’s on your mind?” she said after a bit.

Kent wasn’t sure. The building had felt stifling, and he’d felt…well, ashamed of the lack of reaction to a fight. Violence was familiar to him; a fistfight between two shopkeepers, after all he’d been through, was nothing. He should have intervened, done something.

And then Samira did it for him. Chased off the threat for good.

Who was he, brave soldier, who couldn’t even step in to help a friend? Who apparently only inflicted violence via shouting at his son and Samira? Big man. Where was his courage now?

“Do you think I need therapy?” Kent asked.

Jodi blinked a couple times, in surprise. “Oh. Only…only if you think it’s a good idea.”

Kent was starting to.