(Leo)
***
Sinclair followed me to the Galaxy Meadow, observing the strange fauna for the first time. Their face was contorted but somehow not stiff. They always managed to remain tranquil, though I wouldn't have faulted them for shouting and gaping at the strange ecosystem. (Or at me if they thought I drugged them with psychedelics or similar substances. I wasn't an asshole, but I also couldn't have blamed someone for thinking that either.)
"Are these comfortable to sleep on?" they inquired while they fondled a woody stem. "They look like they'd inflame the spine and skin."
"Mhm," I replied in a high tone, glad to lighten up the conversation. "I used to have a bed, but it became a pain in the neck."
"How so?" They tilted their head, bouncy curls making my heart flutter like the movement of the flowers under the breeze.
"The springs were stabbing me right… here!"
I tapped the veins on my throat, and Sinclair laughed, not realizing I meant the statement quite so literally.
"Besides being gorgeous, it seems like the flowers *do* have their advantages," they stated while stroking a soft petal of the navy variety.
It wrinkled and curled under their touch, but it quickly straightened out when they removed their hand from it, a soft grin dancing along the edges of their lips.
"Please bring me here again," they asked genuinely out of the blue.
They peered to one side to observe the sun and switched to the other—opposite the direction of me—to glance at the moon. "I want to know more about the place you call home."
I didn't think they understood the weight of that statement to me, but I went along with the flow of the conversation despite the giddy shock.
"Then, come back after tomorrow's search. Hopefully, that'll be after we find Ophelia and Koharu, too, so there'll be plenty of time." I smiled gingerly at them as I spoke, admiring their serene, contented features.
They nodded. "I think I'll gladly take you up on that offer."
Pausing, their tone dropped to a deep, hollow sound. "Are you okay now? Do I need to do anything else for you to take a rest?"
I contemplated their question, deciding to be just a little selfish with them. (No harm in that.)
"Can I have a hug before you go?" I implored them with the eyes of a baby animal.
With a rosy tint on their face, they chuckled. "Of course."
Gently, like the motion of a flowing stream, they approached me and wrapped their arms over mine and around my back, developed muscles squeezing my thin frame securely. I did not feel constricted by their strength, and it was rather comforting to be held in place.
I rested my hands on their lower back, unable to move them much further, and Sinclair—almost too short to do so—nuzzled my neck with their forehead and soft hair.
Leaning my head so that my chin touched the crown of theirs, I closed my eyes, drowning in the soft sensation of it all.
A hug was hardly erotic or vulgar, but with certain people (or perhaps a single person), it conveyed the gentle nuances of feelings that could not be experienced otherwise—ones of an innocent fondness and a desire to protect.
What creature didn't choose to surround the ones it loved in a cocoon of warmth? Birds laid eggs in nests, leaving their young in a familiar space, while cats embraced each other as they laid on their sides. The same thing was also true of any person when they chose to surround their beloved in a veil of affection.
I wondered if I was one of those people for Sinclair—wondered if the same kinds of things ran through their mind when we were this close. Or perhaps they were the perceptive type: They did not try to rationalize their actions and merely felt the raw sensations as the waves seared through their body in a sort of emotional catharsis.
I was thankful I was the thoughtful type for fear of letting my emotions consume me. When I was younger, actually, I was like that. I knew better now how foolish that was.
Feeling the thumping heartbeat, I inhaled. I had power over my thoughts but not always over my physical being, and I did not process the heat around my eyes until the warmth embracing my body ceased.
*I can't forget… It would be wrong of me to do so…*
Sinclair whispered, knowing they could be heard with nobody else around, "Why are you crying? Is everything okay?"
Expecting an entirely different face before me, I opened my eyes, and the wind cooled a single wet trail on my face.
"I didn't even notice I was," I said, wiping the tear before Sinclair's approaching hand could.
Seeming concerned, they retracted it. "Do you need to talk about anything before I leave?"
"No," I began, "I mean there are twenty-six—well, twenty-seven for fairies—fluids in a person's body, and for all I know, I could have saved you from wiping away some blood or piss."
They laughed. "Is that so?"
"You never know," I replied with a bold smile.
"Perhaps you're right." They continued chuckling. "You seem fine if you're joking like that."
"I *am* fine. Thanks for bringing me here, and… thank you so much for earlier as well."
Tripping over words, I gulped. "That meant a lot to me."
They nodded and hummed, almost as if they were a saint who did such things every day.
My wingless angel said, "I need to get going. It's very hard to tell how much time has passed with the way these kingdoms are set up."
"Sorry about that," I mumbled, but Sinclair didn't hear me.
So we bid our goodbyes, but that wasn't the last we saw of each other that night.
***
Amidst the cold loneliness of the evening, I didn't tell Sinclair I hardly slept. I didn't want to sleep, but it wasn't as if I didn't *try* at first.
I could've said it was from anxiousness. Why else would a carefree child have refused to sleep the night before a fun event? I was not that kid, however, and it was because the realm of sleep bordered too close to reality for my liking, striking emotions and images brewing in the depths of my subconsciousness.
There were places more restful than sleep in such a case.
When I entered a short slumber, I was immobile again, but I stood outside a room I presumed had stone gray walls with absolutely nothing inside it. It was initially quite large—one could have easily shoved about fifty couches side by side in it—yet it grew smaller by the second until it was about two-thirds of its original size.
I was, unfortunately, the first to confirm that—despite its apparent emptiness—the room did house one thing: a person with their hands tied together and their feet latched onto the chair with several thick pieces of rope. They were blindfolded—not with anything elegant—but they wore a cheap piece of black cotton to obscure their vision. Red marks blossomed on their visible skin everywhere except for their face, and they cried, begging for something—someone—to stop.
I could not see what caused them such grief, but it was within seconds I knew the person was Sinclair.
They were perched inside the desolate snow globe as the main event, and the only pieces that flew were occasional drops of blood falling instead like spring sprinkles of rain from the sky.
I did not wish to watch them suffer once more, but my eyes were coaxed by whatever force must have harmed Sinclair. It must have known physical and psychological torture were close enough in nature. Why was I forced to revel in the moments of darkness and suffering rather than the moments of gentle light and an airy sweetness?