Chico’s wing beats blew him past the bronze dragon begging for our understanding—but that didn’t matter cuz Cheek had already glimpsed the glitter of bronze scales, had already seen the markings on the dragon’s face, the horns that adorned the ferocious head, and already was making his own guesses about the situation. Chico wheeled around sharply as he passed by, coming to face the dragon and give a growl, an affirmation, a Ye I hear you response to the cease fire. His gun was lowered, his offense lowered as he recognized friends (to him, at least), but he still shot a look down at me that bordered on concern cuz the dragon was turning towards me, wings slashing the air and a scream of challenge being thrown at me, and he knew he was locked out of my mind cuz I was ready for it.

Oh, yeah, I was ready for it. The dragon was facing me now and I was pumped for the fight, the static lancing in my bones and Sparkmarrow tight in my grip as I anticipated the charge.

It never came though (she never fights back when I want it—) The dragon took a step towards me and I tensed up, and after that it was all downhill from there because in that moment the beast seemed to crumple from within, as though everything from the sky to the air to the blood beating through its veins was too heavy and suddenly, it couldn’t stop carrying the load. It took a step closer, and another, and its body was actually crumpling now, no, it was shifting, and scales became a coat and claws became hooves and the bony ridge of a brow softened to a face I’d known to be stoic and sanctimonious—

—was now tear-soaked and stained with a pain that was tired inside and out and I dropped Sparkmarrow and he lay I the grass buzzing and sharp and ready for a battle that couldn’t be fought with swords.

I froze as I watched her, blindsided by this display, caught off guard completely by it—because it was so familiar. The gauges in the earth could’ve been scratches on a cave face, the wads of torn grasses and flowers could’ve been shards of crystal, and it could’ve been me standing there, helpless with the weight of too much shit on my back. And it was weird, because this was the person who had made me clean that shit up and face it with unrelenting, pitiless irony.

I can't, she said to me.

“Then don’t,” I found myself saying.

She was chewing on something and it hurt. I know it did, I know it had to because things that are that heavy are hard to fit in your mouth. I didn’t know how to handle this. I didn’t know whether or not to touch her, or even if I wanted to, or even if I really actually felt bad for her or whether or not I was pulled into it cuz of the tears. I could’ve just turned away, gone back down the mountain and left her to her little fuck it up session--

Except no, I couldn’t do that, there’s no way on earth. I’m not that kind of heartless. “It’s okay,” I said, my voice barely a breath as I looked at her, as I inched just a little closer, “Let it out, man. You can’t keep it locked up, man. Gotta let it go.” Gotta let yourself be human.





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