Chapter Text
The weekly market opened at nine.
Parrot arrived at eight forty-seven because being early was not the same as being anxious, no matter what Spoke said.
It was simply responsible.
There was a difference.
A responsible person left the house with a written list, reusable bags, a wallet, a backup wallet because Spoke had once misplaced the first wallet in a produce display, and a clear plan for the morning.
An anxious person, Parrot assumed, would have made a color-coded map of the market.
He had not made a color-coded map.
He had only sketched the stall layout from memory on the back of the list so they could move efficiently from produce to bread to cheese to the dog-treat vendor without doubling back.
That was logistics.
“Is that a map?” Spoke asked.
Parrot folded the paper in half.
“No.”
Spoke leaned closer over his shoulder. “It has arrows.”
“It has notes.”
“It has a route.”
“It has organization.”
Wemmbu, walking on Parrot’s other side with one hand tucked into Flame’s coat pocket, tilted his head to peer at the hidden paper. “Does the route avoid the antique stalls?”
“Yes.”
“Rude.”
“It avoids the antique stalls because the last time we went, you bought a brass telescope with no lenses.”
“It had history.”
“It had dust.”
“It had character.”
“It had a note taped to the side saying ‘DO NOT LOOK DIRECTLY AT SUN.’”
Wemmbu looked offended. “That was practical advice.”
“It had no lenses,” Parrot repeated.
“Exactly. It could have been dangerous.”
Spoke nodded gravely. “Safety first.”
Parrot looked at Flame.
Flame was carrying the large canvas shopping bag over one shoulder, because apparently his arms had been designed for lifting things and his entire personality had been designed to make everyone else feel as though accepting help was not a burden. He had dressed for the morning in a dark jacket, an old knit scarf, and the expression of a man who had already predicted at least three disasters but was choosing peace.
His eyes met Parrot’s.
“I’m not taking sides,” Flame said.
“You are holding the bags already,” Parrot replied. “You have taken a side.”
Flame glanced at the nearly empty bag. “I can give it to you.”
Parrot opened his mouth.
Flame’s expression went carefully neutral. Not defensive. Not teasing. Just waiting.
Giving him the choice.
Parrot looked at the bag. Then at Flame’s hand looped around its strap. Then at the market stretching ahead of them, its striped awnings bright against the gray-gold morning, people moving between stalls with coffee cups and baskets and sleepy dogs on leashes.
He sighed.
“You can carry it,” he said.
Flame smiled.
The smile was small. Quiet. It still managed to make something in Parrot’s chest feel like it had been warmed from the inside.
“Okay,” Flame said.
Wemmbu squinted at Parrot. “You know you could just say you like it when he carries things for you.”
“I like it when he does not strain his back.”
“He does not strain his back.”
“That is not the point.”
Spoke nudged Parrot with his elbow. “It’s romantic, though.”
“It is practical.”
“It can be both,” Flame said.
Parrot turned toward him.
Flame’s ears went pink beneath the edge of his hair.
Wemmbu made a soft, delighted sound.
Spoke clutched his chest. “He said it again.”
“I said nothing,” Flame muttered.
“You said both,” Wemmbu said. “That’s practically a love letter from you.”
Flame looked like he would have preferred a sudden, localized earthquake.
Parrot did not help him.
Mostly because he was too busy trying not to smile.
The market was already filling when they reached the entrance.
It took up three blocks of the town square every Saturday morning, spilling from the brick plaza into the narrow streets around it. Produce crates stood in bright, cheerful rows beneath red-and-white awnings. A baker was setting out loaves of sourdough and flaky pastries behind a glass display. The florist had buckets of sunflowers, lavender, and pale pink roses arranged like someone had tried to make a garden portable.
There were handmade candles, knitted scarves, jars of honey, jars of jam, jars of pickled vegetables, jars of things Parrot had no intention of identifying before breakfast.
A musician with a battered guitar played near the fountain.
Two children were attempting to convince their father that a balloon animal counted as a pet.
The air smelled like coffee, warm bread, damp pavement, and the faint sweetness of fruit.
Wemmbu took one deep breath.
“Oh,” he said.
Parrot glanced at him.
Wemmbu had gone soft around the edges. He always did that at markets, despite insisting he only came “for the experience.” His fingers were still curled around Flame’s coat pocket. His gaze moved from stall to stall with the open delight of someone who believed every table might contain a treasure.
Spoke, on the other hand, had already spotted the mini-donut stand.
“Oh,” he said too.
Parrot caught the back of his jacket before he could launch himself into the crowd.
“No.”
Spoke turned around. “I wasn’t going anywhere.”
“You leaned forward.”
“I was assessing.”
“You were about to run.”
“I was going to walk quickly with purpose.”
“There will be donuts later,” Parrot said.
“Later?”
“Yes.”
“You mean after vegetables?”
“Yes.”
Spoke stared at him with the deep, personal betrayal of a man being asked to endure hardship beyond human comprehension.
“You put vegetables before donuts,” he said.
“I put vegetables before everything.”
“That is why you are the way you are.”
“What does that mean?”
Spoke looked at Flame. “Do you think he knows he’s like this?”
Flame, traitor, smiled into the collar of his scarf. “Probably.”
Parrot pointed down the first aisle. “Produce. Now.”
Wemmbu gave Flame’s pocket one final squeeze before letting go. “Lead the way, Market Dad.”
“I am not—”
Spoke gasped. “Market Dad is so much better than Fort Dad.”
“It is not.”
“Market Dad,” Wemmbu repeated thoughtfully. “Protector of the shopping list. Guardian of the reusable bags. Enemy of spontaneous joy.”
“I am standing right here.”
“Exactly,” Wemmbu said, smiling at him.
Parrot’s answer got caught somewhere behind the warmth pressing suddenly against his ribs.
He looked down at the list instead.
The first item was apples.
Apples, he told himself, were safe.
Apples did not have a history. Apples did not require “rescuing.” Apples were not capable of looking lonely.
He had forgotten who he was shopping with.
The apple stall was run by a woman named Mrs. Vale, who had known Parrot long enough to recognize him on sight and known Spoke and Wemmbu long enough to look faintly concerned whenever they appeared together.
“Morning, Parrot,” she called from behind a neat display of red, green, and golden apples. “Morning, Flame.”
“Good morning,” Flame said.
“Morning!” Spoke replied, already leaning over a crate of pears.
Wemmbu waved both hoodie-sleeved hands. “Hello, Mrs. Vale. Your apples look emotionally available today.”
Mrs. Vale blinked once.
Then, to her credit, she said, “Thank you?”
Parrot closed his eyes.
“Two kilos of the green apples, please,” he said quickly. “And one of the red.”
“Got it.” Mrs. Vale reached for a paper bag. “How’s the house?”
“Intact,” Parrot said.
Flame made a tiny sound that might have been a cough.
Parrot glanced at him.
Flame looked at the apples very seriously.
Mrs. Vale smiled. “That’s good to hear.”
“It’s a relative term,” Wemmbu said.
“It is not,” Parrot replied.
“It has all its walls,” Spoke offered.
“That is a very low bar.”
“Still cleared it,” Spoke said.
Mrs. Vale laughed.
Parrot began putting apples into the first canvas bag. Flame shifted the larger bag from his shoulder to the crook of his arm, preparing to take the smaller one too.
Parrot caught his wrist.
Flame looked down.
“I can carry apples,” Parrot said.
“I know.”
“I mean it.”
“I know.”
Flame’s voice was gentle. His hand stayed where it was, relaxed under Parrot’s fingers.
The morning crowd moved around them. Somebody’s dog barked near the fountain. The guitarist changed songs.
Flame glanced at the apples, then at Parrot.
“Do you want to carry them?” he asked.
The question was simple. No pressure in it. No assumption that Parrot needed to prove anything. Just an actual question.
Parrot looked at the bag.
Then at Flame.
“Yes,” he said.
Flame smiled and let him take it.
“Okay.”
The whole exchange lasted maybe five seconds.
It still felt like something settling gently into place.
Wemmbu watched them with open fondness.
Spoke watched them with the expression of someone physically restraining a comment.
Parrot pointed at them both. “Don’t.”
“We didn’t say anything,” Spoke said.
“You were going to.”
“We were going to compliment your healthy communication,” Wemmbu said.
“That is worse.”
Mrs. Vale handed over the final bag of apples. “You four are sweet.”
Parrot’s face warmed.
Spoke immediately leaned over the counter. “Thank you. We work very hard at it.”
“You do not,” Parrot muttered.
Flame’s shoulder brushed his as they turned away from the stall.
“Maybe a little,” Flame said.
Parrot did not look at him.
He could not risk it.
They made it through vegetables with only one minor incident.
This was, objectively, a success.
The incident involved Spoke asking whether the zucchini could be used as a sword, Wemmbu immediately selecting two “for comparison,” and Parrot taking both vegetables away before anyone could begin what Spoke had called “a friendly duel.”
“You can’t take our weapons,” Spoke said.
“I can and did.”
“They were not weapons,” Wemmbu protested. “They were conversation starters.”
“They were zucchini.”
“Every great conversation needs props.”
Flame was standing beside the tomato crates with the expression of a man who had chosen not to intervene because he was, quite honestly, enjoying himself.
Parrot stared at him.
Flame raised his hands. “I’m not laughing.”
“You are smiling.”
“I can smile without laughing.”
“Not like that.”
Flame’s smile widened.
Parrot looked back at the vegetables.
This was not a day for dignity.
At the bread stall, things improved briefly. The baker had made rosemary focaccia, a loaf of olive bread Flame liked, and a tray of soft pretzel rolls that made Spoke stop walking with the sudden focus of a hunting animal.
Parrot let them buy two.
Then he let Spoke choose a cheese pastry because Spoke had been good for almost nine full minutes, which was statistically impressive.
Wemmbu chose a cinnamon twist.
Flame chose nothing.
Parrot noticed.
Of course he did.
The baker was placing their bread in a paper bag when Parrot glanced at the glass display and saw the small round pastries in the corner—golden crust, apple filling, sugar scattered across the top.
Flame liked those.
He had mentioned it once, months ago, while passing the stall on a rainy morning. He had said they smelled good. Then he had bought a plain loaf for everyone else and never mentioned the pastries again.
Parrot pointed at them. “Two apple tarts too.”
Flame looked at him.
“You like those,” Parrot said, like it was not a big thing. Like it was not a tiny, stored-away fact he had carried with him for months.
Flame’s eyes softened.
“I do,” he said.
“I know.”
The baker put two into the bag.
Flame took the bag from her before Parrot could, but when he did, his fingers slid briefly across Parrot’s knuckles.
“Thank you,” Flame said quietly.
Parrot looked toward the next stall. “You’re welcome.”
Behind them, Wemmbu made an extremely small squeaking noise.
Spoke inhaled sharply.
Parrot did not turn around.
“Do not,” he said.
“We didn’t say anything,” Spoke replied.
“You made a sound.”
“A sound of appreciation,” Wemmbu said.
“You are both one comment away from carrying all the bags.”
Spoke looked at Flame. “He wouldn’t do that to you.”
Flame’s eyes crinkled. “Probably not.”
Parrot felt betrayed by the entire concept of love.
The market’s antique stalls were on the far side of the square.
Parrot knew this.
That was why the route on his map avoided them.
Unfortunately, maps were only useful if the people being navigated respected them.
Wemmbu was walking between Flame and Parrot, nibbling at the end of his cinnamon twist. Spoke had somehow already finished his pastry and was attempting to persuade Flame that a second one was medically necessary.
Then Wemmbu stopped.
Not slowed.
Stopped.
Parrot took two more steps before realizing the space beside him had gone empty.
He turned.
Wemmbu was staring at a stall near the fountain.
It did not look particularly dangerous.
That was the first problem.
The stall had old books, brass candlesticks, framed prints, decorative boxes, chipped teacups, a stack of mismatched silverware, and a collection of odd little objects that might have belonged in an attic, a museum, or a very tasteful haunting.
Near the center of the table sat a spoon.
It was not an extraordinary spoon.
It was small and silver-colored, with a tarnished handle and an engraved pattern of curling leaves. It looked old. It looked slightly bent. It looked, in Parrot’s professional opinion, like a spoon.
Wemmbu looked at it as though he had just found a lost relative.
“Oh,” he said.
Parrot’s stomach dropped.
“No,” he said.
Wemmbu looked at him. “You don’t even know what I was going to say.”
“I do.”
“It looks lonely.”
Spoke leaned over the table. “It does look lonely.”
“It is a spoon,” Parrot said.
“It’s alone,” Wemmbu replied. “Among all these forks.”
Parrot stared at the display.
There were, admittedly, several forks.
That did not make the spoon lonely.
It made it part of a cutlery collection.
“Wemmbu,” Flame said gently.
Wemmbu glanced at him.
Flame did not look annoyed. He never did, not really. But there was a familiar, careful patience in his expression: Please don’t make this harder for Parrot than it needs to be.
Wemmbu’s mouth quirked.
“Can I buy it?” he asked.
Parrot’s answer was immediate.
“No.”
Wemmbu put a hand to his chest. “Cruel.”
“You have thirty-seven spoons at home.”
“Those are normal spoons.”
“That is the point.”
“This one has a story.”
“This one has tarnish.”
“Same thing.”
“It is not.”
The stall owner, an older man in a cap, watched them with a look that suggested this was better entertainment than he had expected from the morning.
“How much is the spoon?” Spoke asked.
Parrot turned on him. “Do not ask that.”
“I’m gathering information.”
“You are helping him bargain.”
“Maybe it’s a very good price.”
Wemmbu looked hopeful.
Flame spoke before the owner could answer. “Do we have a place for it?”
Wemmbu opened his mouth.
Closed it.
Opened it again.
“Yes,” he said. “Probably.”
“Where?” Parrot asked.
Wemmbu considered this.
“Somewhere… special.”
“That is not a location.”
“It could go in the spoon drawer.”
“The spoon drawer is full.”
“It could go in the emergency spoon drawer.”
“We do not have an emergency spoon drawer.”
Wemmbu’s eyes brightened. “We could.”
“No.”
Spoke, who had the survival instincts of someone raised exclusively by bad ideas, picked up the spoon.
Parrot watched it happen in slow motion.
“Spoke,” he said.
The spoon flashed dull silver in the sunlight.
Wemmbu gasped like Spoke had placed a crown on his own head.
The stall owner leaned forward.
Spoke examined the engraving, then held it up against the light. “It’s actually kind of cool.”
“Put it down,” Parrot said.
“Maybe we can get a group discount if we buy the forks too.”
“Put it down.”
“I’m just saying, a spoon without its people—”
“Spoke.”
Spoke put it down.
Mostly.
The spoon slipped from his fingers, hit the edge of the table, bounced once against a decorative tin, and landed on the pavement with a soft metallic clatter.
Everything went still.
Spoke looked down.
Wemmbu looked down.
Parrot looked down.
Flame closed his eyes.
The spoon, which had survived some unknowable number of years and several ownership changes, lay dramatically in the middle of the path.
Wemmbu whispered, “It fell.”
“I can see that,” Parrot said.
Spoke crouched immediately. “I can fix it.”
“You cannot fix a dropped spoon.”
“I can apologize to it.”
“Do not apologize to the spoon.”
“I already did, internally.”
The stall owner gave a long, slow sigh.
“No touching unless you’re buying,” he said.
Spoke stood up. “That’s fair.”
Wemmbu pointed at the spoon. “Can we buy it now?”
Parrot’s eyes closed.
Flame’s hand came to rest between his shoulder blades. Warm. Steady.
Not stopping him from being annoyed. Just there.
Parrot took one breath.
Then another.
“No,” he said.
Wemmbu’s face fell.
It was quick. He covered it almost immediately with a little roll of his eyes and a joke-shaped smile.
“Fine. Abandon the lonely spoon. Leave it to its fork-filled fate.”
Something in Parrot’s frustration faltered.
He knew that look.
Wemmbu loved joking. Loved the drama. Loved turning every small feeling into something ridiculous enough that no one could take it seriously.
But sometimes the joke came a half-second late.
Sometimes it was a cover.
Parrot looked at the spoon. Then at the stall owner. Then at the long list in his hand, which absolutely did not include antique cutlery.
“Five,” he said.
The stall owner blinked. “Five what?”
“Five dollars,” Parrot said. “For the spoon.”
Wemmbu stared at him.
Spoke’s mouth dropped open.
The stall owner glanced down at the spoon, then back at Parrot. “It’s marked twelve.”
“It fell,” Parrot said. “We will take it. But we are not paying twelve dollars for something bent.”
The stall owner’s expression shifted.
Then, slowly, he smiled.
“Seven.”
“Five.”
“Six.”
Parrot looked at the spoon.
Wemmbu had gone very still. The sleeve of Flame’s hoodie was pulled over half his hand. His eyes had lost their teasing edge.
“Fine,” Parrot said. “Six.”
The stall owner wrapped the spoon in a square of old paper and handed it across the table.
Parrot took it.
Then he turned to Wemmbu.
“This is not becoming an emergency spoon drawer,” he said.
Wemmbu’s smile came back, unsteady at first and then bright. “No emergency spoon drawer.”
“It goes in the regular spoon drawer.”
“Okay.”
“And you polish it.”
“Okay.”
“And you do not name it.”
Wemmbu paused.
Spoke leaned forward. “Can he name it internally?”
“No.”
Wemmbu looked at the little wrapped bundle in Parrot’s hand.
“I love you,” he said.
The sentence came quietly enough that only the four of them could hear it beneath the market noise.
Parrot’s chest tightened.
He held out the wrapped spoon.
Wemmbu took it with both hands, careful this time.
“I know,” Parrot said.
It was not the answer most people expected.
But Wemmbu’s eyes softened anyway.
“I know you do,” he replied.
Flame’s hand shifted from Parrot’s back to the nape of his neck, fingers warm against his skin.
Spoke looked suspiciously emotional for exactly two seconds.
Then he pointed down the aisle.
“Hey,” he said. “Is that a chicken?”
Parrot turned.
It was a chicken.
And immediately, he knew the market day was about to get worse.
The chicken stall was not technically a chicken stall.
It was a farm stand at the end of the square, set apart from the produce and bakery vendors by a low temporary fence. It sold eggs, honey, handmade soap, and small bundles of dried herbs. Behind the stall, in a little wooden enclosure, several chickens pecked at the ground with the dignified indifference of creatures entirely unaware that they were about to become a problem.
One chicken was white with black speckles.
One was rust-red.
One was an improbable shade of brown and gold.
Spoke had stopped walking.
“Parrot,” he said.
“No.”
“You don’t know what I’m going to say.”
“I do.”
“What if I wanted eggs?”
“Then you would have said eggs.”
Spoke looked toward the chickens.
Wemmbu tucked the wrapped spoon carefully into his pocket. “That brown one is looking at us.”
“It is a chicken,” Parrot said.
“It has kind eyes.”
“It has chicken eyes.”
“Same thing.”
“It is not.”
Flame rubbed a hand over his face.
“Just eggs,” he said. “We need eggs.”
Parrot looked at him.
Flame’s gaze stayed entirely innocent.
“You are helping them,” Parrot said.
“I’m helping the grocery list.”
“That is how it starts.”
Still, they did need eggs.
Parrot had put eggs on the list. He had written the number beside them. He had even circled it, because if he left the quantity ambiguous, Spoke would return with forty-eight eggs and insist that breakfast had been “underfunded.”
He approached the counter.
The farmer, a woman in a straw hat, smiled at them. “Morning. Need some eggs?”
“Yes,” Parrot said quickly. “One dozen.”
Spoke had already crouched near the enclosure.
“Hello,” he whispered to the brown-and-gold chicken.
“Spoke,” Parrot said.
The chicken took two slow steps closer.
Spoke put a hand over his heart.
“It chose me.”
“It is looking for food.”
“I can provide food.”
“No.”
Wemmbu crouched beside him. “What if she’s lonely?”
“She has other chickens.”
“Sometimes you can be surrounded by people and still feel lonely,” Wemmbu said.
Parrot stopped.
Wemmbu was still looking at the chicken. His voice was light. Too light.
The farmer began packing eggs into a carton.
Flame stood behind Parrot, close enough that their sleeves brushed. He did not say anything. He did not have to.
Parrot knew he was hearing the same thing in Wemmbu’s words that Parrot was.
A joke. Mostly.
Not entirely.
Spoke looked at Wemmbu, then at the chicken, and his expression softened in a way that made him look briefly older than his usual impulsive grin.
“She has friends,” he said. “We’re just visiting.”
Wemmbu looked at him.
Then he smiled. “Yeah.”
Parrot watched Spoke stand up. He did not reach for the fence. He did not try to open it. He simply looked at the chicken for another second and then turned away.
Something warm unfolded beneath Parrot’s ribs.
He was proud of him.
This was deeply inconvenient.
The farmer handed Parrot the egg carton. “That’ll be five.”
Parrot paid.
As he tucked the carton into the bag, Spoke came to stand on one side of him and Wemmbu on the other.
“Can we get honey?” Spoke asked.
Parrot looked at the list.
Honey was not on it.
But the jar had a small painted bee on the label. Wemmbu was looking at it with open interest, and Flame had already glanced toward the display of herbal tea beside it.
Parrot sighed.
“One jar,” he said.
Spoke grinned. “You’re the best.”
“I am reasonable.”
“Those are the same thing,” Wemmbu said.
Flame’s fingers brushed across the back of Parrot’s hand as they moved down the line of jars.
“This one?” Flame asked, pointing to wildflower honey.
Parrot looked at the label.
Then at Flame.
“You like that kind,” he said.
Flame’s mouth softened. “I do.”
“Then that one.”
Spoke made a small sound.
Parrot did not turn around.
“Not one word,” he said.
“I didn’t say anything,” Spoke replied.
“You made a sound.”
“It was a respectful sound.”
Wemmbu nodded. “A supportive sound.”
Parrot walked away before either of them could become more unbearable.
By eleven, the bags were full.
Parrot’s original route had dissolved at approximately nine fifteen.
They had bought apples, tomatoes, bread, eggs, cheese, honey, vegetables, dog treats, a bundle of lavender Wemmbu claimed Ashen would enjoy smelling, two apple tarts, one antique spoon, a bottle of hot sauce Spoke had somehow argued was “for emergency flavor,” and a jar of strawberry jam that Flame had quietly added after Parrot mentioned they were low.
They had not bought a chicken.
Parrot considered that a victory.
They had also not been banned from any stall yet.
At eleven ten, Parrot began to feel optimistic.
This was his second mistake.
The donut stand stood near the fountain, bright yellow awning flapping gently in the breeze. A chalkboard sign promised cinnamon sugar, chocolate glaze, berry jam, and something called “The Triple Trouble,” which Parrot refused to ask about on principle.
Spoke spotted it immediately.
“Donuts,” he said.
“Yes,” Parrot replied.
Spoke stopped walking.
“You said yes?”
“I said later. It is later.”
Spoke’s face lit up with the kind of joy most people reserved for surprise vacations or winning the lottery.
Wemmbu leaned toward him. “Try to behave.”
Spoke looked offended. “I always behave.”
Parrot, Flame, and Wemmbu stared at him.
Spoke considered their expressions.
“Fine,” he said. “I behave situationally.”
“That is not better,” Parrot said.
The person running the stand was a young man with flour on his cheek and the exhausted but friendly smile of someone who had been serving sugar to children all morning.
“Four?” he asked as they approached.
“Four,” Flame said.
Spoke leaned over the counter. “What’s Triple Trouble?”
The vendor smiled. “Three mini donuts stacked together. Cinnamon, chocolate, and jam.”
Spoke’s eyes widened.
Wemmbu put both hands on the counter. “That is art.”
“It is a lot of sugar,” Parrot said.
“Art can be sugar.”
“It can also be a nap afterward.”
Flame looked toward the chalkboard. “Maybe one to share?”
Spoke turned to him. “You would share Triple Trouble with me?”
Flame looked faintly confused by the intensity of the question. “Sure.”
Spoke’s expression went soft.
Then he recovered immediately and slapped both hands on the counter. “One Triple Trouble. Two cinnamon. One jam.”
Parrot looked at him. “That’s four orders.”
“I know.”
“You are sharing?”
“I’m sharing Flame’s.”
Flame’s face turned pink.
Wemmbu grinned. “Disgustingly sweet. Literally.”
The vendor laughed as he filled a paper tray.
Everything was fine.
Everything was normal.
Then Spoke noticed the donut stand’s tiny brass bell.
It sat at the edge of the counter beside a hand-lettered sign that read: RING FOR FRESH BATCHES.
Spoke looked at the bell.
Parrot saw him look at the bell.
“Spoke,” Parrot said.
“I’m not doing anything.”
“You are thinking about doing something.”
“I’m thinking about fresh batches.”
“The bell is not for you.”
“How do you know?”
“Because it says ring for fresh batches.”
“What if I want a fresh batch?”
“We are already ordering.”
Spoke tilted his head. “But what if I want them fresher?”
“Do not ring the bell.”
Wemmbu leaned closer to inspect it. “It’s very small.”
“Do not encourage him.”
“I’m just observing.”
“You are both banned from observing objects,” Parrot said.
The vendor turned toward the fryer.
This was the moment everything went wrong.
Spoke did not ring the bell.
Wemmbu did.
It was one quick, bright little ding.
Every person in line looked over.
The vendor turned around.
Wemmbu froze with one finger still resting on the bell.
Spoke made a strangled noise.
Parrot stared.
Wemmbu smiled weakly. “Fresh batches?”
The vendor looked at the sign. Then at Wemmbu. Then at the bell.
“It’s for staff,” he said.
Wemmbu’s smile became smaller. “Ah.”
Spoke, because he had never once seen a bad situation and thought, perhaps I should make it less bad, leaned forward.
“We can be staff,” he offered.
Parrot’s soul left his body.
The vendor blinked. “What?”
“We could help,” Spoke said, gesturing toward the fryer. “We’re good at—”
“No,” Parrot said.
“—things,” Spoke finished.
“No,” Parrot repeated.
Wemmbu, clearly realizing he had already made one mistake and deciding that meant he was free from the responsibility of making fewer, said, “He means moral support.”
“No,” Parrot said again.
Flame placed one steady hand on Spoke’s shoulder.
Spoke immediately stopped talking.
The vendor looked between all of them, probably trying to decide whether the morning was worth continuing.
Then he sighed.
“No more bell,” he said.
“Absolutely,” Parrot replied.
“Sorry,” Wemmbu said, genuine beneath the drama.
“Sorry,” Spoke echoed.
The vendor nodded and turned back toward the fryer.
Parrot thought, briefly and foolishly, that they had escaped.
Then a fresh batch of jam donuts came out.
The vendor placed the tray down behind the counter.
Spoke watched the donuts.
Wemmbu watched Spoke watching the donuts.
Parrot watched both of them.
“Do not,” he said.
“We’re not doing anything,” Spoke whispered.
“You are visibly planning something.”
“I’m not.”
“You have your planning face.”
“I do not have a planning face.”
“You do,” Flame said.
Spoke turned toward him, betrayed. “You too?”
Flame’s mouth twitched. “It’s a nice face.”
Spoke stared.
Parrot stared.
Wemmbu covered his mouth with both hands.
Flame seemed to realize, too late, that he had said it out loud.
His ears went pink.
“I meant—”
Spoke’s entire expression softened. “You think my planning face is nice?”
Flame looked at him.
“I think you’re nice,” he said.
It was quiet. Simple.
Spoke stopped moving.
The market noise continued around them. Somebody laughed near the fountain. The guitarist struck a bright chord. A child nearby asked for a balloon shaped like a dragon.
But Spoke’s face had gone open in that dangerous, tender way it did when somebody gave him sincerity before he could make a joke out of wanting it.
Then Wemmbu bumped his shoulder.
Spoke smiled, small and real.
“Okay,” he said.
Parrot’s throat tightened.
The vendor set their tray of donuts on the counter.
Parrot paid quickly.
Flame took the tray, and Spoke took one cinnamon donut before anyone could tell him not to eat it while walking.
Everything might still have been fine.
Then Spoke looked at the fresh jam donuts again.
“Can I have one of those too?” he asked.
Parrot looked at the tray in Flame’s hands.
There were already four donuts.
Spoke had one in his hand.
His voice was hopeful, but he was trying to make it sound casual.
Parrot knew that voice.
He also knew how much sugar was reasonable for one morning.
He weighed the options.
Then he said, “After lunch.”
Spoke’s expression fell.
Not dramatically. Not enough for strangers to notice.
But Parrot did.
Before he could soften it, Wemmbu reached for the bell again.
“Fresh batch for my friend,” he declared.
The bell rang.
Once.
Twice.
Three times, because Spoke grabbed Wemmbu’s wrist too late and the movement jostled the bell against the counter.
The vendor turned around.
Parrot closed his eyes.
Wemmbu froze.
Spoke froze.
Flame looked at the sky.
The vendor stared at them.
Then, with the solemn exhaustion of a man who had made peace with the fact that his morning would become a story later, he pointed at Wemmbu and Spoke.
“You two,” he said, “are banned from the bell.”
Spoke’s mouth dropped open.
Wemmbu put a hand to his heart. “Banned?”
“Banned from touching it.”
“We accept this,” Parrot said immediately.
Spoke turned to him. “You accept it?”
“Yes.”
“You’re supposed to defend us.”
“I am defending the rest of the market.”
Wemmbu looked at the vendor. “Can we still buy donuts?”
The vendor sighed. “Yes.”
Spoke brightened. “Then it’s not a real ban.”
“It is a bell ban,” Flame said.
“It is a deeply personal bell ban,” Wemmbu corrected.
Parrot took the donut tray from Flame before either of them could attempt an appeal. “Say thank you.”
“Thank you,” Spoke said.
“Thank you,” Wemmbu echoed.
“Sorry,” they added together.
The vendor gave them a reluctant smile.
As they walked away, Spoke looked over his shoulder at the tiny brass bell.
“I’ll miss it,” he said.
“You have known it for four minutes,” Parrot said.
“It understood me.”
“It was a bell.”
“Same thing.”
“It is not.”
Flame laughed.
Parrot had no choice but to laugh too.
They ate their donuts on the edge of the fountain.
This was not part of Parrot’s plan.
But the bags were heavy, the sun had come out from behind the clouds, and the stone rim of the fountain was warm enough to sit on. The water made a soft, steady sound. Around them, the market moved in cheerful fragments: bags rustling, vendors calling greetings, a child chasing a bubble across the pavement.
Spoke sat between Flame and Wemmbu, holding half of the Triple Trouble donut while Flame held the other half.
They had agreed to share it.
This had not stopped Spoke from trying to eat the cinnamon half and the chocolate half before Flame had tasted either.
Flame caught his wrist gently.
“Share,” Flame said.
“I am sharing.”
“You have both halves.”
“I am holding them for us.”
Flame raised an eyebrow.
Spoke sighed, exaggerated and theatrical, then offered Flame the chocolate piece.
Flame took it.
Spoke watched him take a bite with the attention of someone awaiting an official review.
“It’s good,” Flame said.
Spoke smiled. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
Wemmbu leaned into Spoke’s shoulder. “You look very pleased with yourself.”
“I made a good choice.”
“You pointed at the menu,” Parrot said.
“Exactly. Leadership.”
Parrot sat beside Flame with the apple tart balanced on a napkin. He had meant to eat it himself.
Then Flame looked at it.
Not obviously. Not in a way that was asking.
Just a quick glance, one of those tiny instinctive things that made Parrot notice because he always noticed.
Parrot broke off half and held it out.
Flame looked at him.
“You can have some,” Parrot said.
Flame’s expression softened. “You don’t have to share.”
“I know.”
Flame hesitated.
Parrot kept his hand extended.
Then Flame leaned closer and took the piece from Parrot’s fingers.
His lips brushed Parrot’s thumb.
It was probably an accident.
It still made Parrot forget, briefly, that other people existed.
Wemmbu made a tiny squeak.
Spoke’s mouth fell open.
Parrot looked at both of them.
“Do not,” he said.
“We didn’t say anything,” Spoke replied.
“You made a noise.”
“It was a respectful noise,” Wemmbu said.
Flame’s face had gone pink. He looked down at the pastry like it had personally betrayed him.
Parrot’s chest warmed.
He leaned a little closer until his shoulder brushed Flame’s.
Flame looked up.
“You okay?” he asked quietly.
Parrot could have said yes.
He usually did.
But he had been trying, slowly, to do better at answering questions Flame asked like that. Not because Flame ever demanded more. Because Flame made room for more.
“I’m good,” Parrot said.
Flame’s smile was small and real.
“Good.”
Spoke watched them for a moment, then rested his head on Flame’s shoulder.
Wemmbu immediately claimed Parrot’s other shoulder.
The fountain kept splashing.
The market kept moving.
For a few minutes, no one said anything.
It was not awkward.
It never was with them.
Their silence had weight. Shape. A way of gathering them close without needing anyone to name it.
Then Spoke said, “We should buy Ashen a hat.”
Parrot snapped out of the moment.
“No.”
Wemmbu lifted his head. “A tiny hat?”
“No.”
“Maybe a little sun hat,” Spoke continued. “To protect him from weather.”
“He is a dog.”
“Exactly. He cannot buy one himself.”
Flame’s shoulders began to shake with silent laughter.
Parrot looked at him. “You are not helping.”
“I know.”
“You are not sorry.”
“No,” Flame admitted.
Parrot sighed.
Spoke smiled at him.
It was an impossible smile. Bright and warm and clearly designed to get away with things.
Parrot looked away.
He had systems.
He had plans.
He also had three partners who could dismantle both with one look.
It was deeply unfair.
The hat stall was not on the list.
Neither was the flower stall, which Wemmbu wanted to visit because “the lavender needs friends.” Neither was the small bookstore with its sale table outside, which Flame slowed in front of because there was a paperback display he kept glancing at.
Parrot let them go anyway.
Not all at once.
That would be irresponsible.
He made them agree to stay within sight.
Spoke looked offended. “We are adults.”
“Technically,” Parrot said.
“Rude.”
“Accurate.”
“I can be trusted.”
“You are banned from a bell.”
“That was Wemmbu.”
“You helped.”
“I emotionally helped.”
“That is worse.”
But Parrot let Spoke and Wemmbu go toward the hat stall together while Flame drifted toward the bookstore display.
He stayed in the middle of the aisle with the bags, watching all three of them.
It should have felt like work.
Maybe, once, it would have.
But Flame stood a few feet away, fingers moving reverently over the spines of old books. Spoke held a tiny knitted cap up to Ashen’s imaginary head and argued that it would make him look “distinguished.” Wemmbu tried on a wide-brimmed straw hat and turned in a slow circle, laughing when the brim bumped Spoke’s forehead.
They were safe.
They were happy.
Parrot felt the bags pull a little at his hands and did not mind.
Then Flame returned to his side with a book tucked under one arm.
“Did you find something?” Parrot asked.
Flame looked down at the book. “Maybe.”
It was a used copy of a fantasy novel, the cover softened at the edges. Parrot recognized it. Flame had mentioned wanting to read it after seeing an adaptation advertised months ago.
“You should get it,” Parrot said.
Flame shook his head. “I don’t need it.”
Parrot looked at the price sticker.
It was cheap. Not that it mattered. Flame rarely bought things for himself even when he wanted them, as if the wanting had to be weighed against everyone else’s needs first.
Parrot knew that habit.
He knew it because he had one too.
“Flame,” he said.
Flame looked at him.
“You want it.”
“I can get it another time.”
“You are here now.”
Flame hesitated.
Parrot adjusted the apple bag in one hand and reached for the book with the other. He turned it over, inspected the condition, then placed it back against Flame’s chest.
“Get it,” he said.
Flame’s fingers closed around the cover.
For a moment, he did not speak.
Then he said, “Okay.”
The word was barely a breath.
Parrot nodded toward the cashier. “Go pay before you change your mind.”
Flame smiled.
Not the shy, uncertain one from before.
A real smile. Bright enough that Parrot felt it in his own chest.
“Okay,” Flame said again.
When he walked away, Parrot watched him go.
He did not notice Wemmbu and Spoke returning until they were standing in front of him.
Wemmbu held a tiny yellow hat with a blue ribbon.
Spoke held a knitted cap with ear holes.
Parrot looked at both items.
“No.”
“But look,” Spoke said. “The ear holes.”
“No.”
“Imagine Ashen,” Wemmbu said, holding the yellow hat up near his own head. “He would be radiant.”
“He would be confused.”
“He is already confused,” Spoke said. “This would give it direction.”
“No dog hats.”
Spoke and Wemmbu looked at one another.
Parrot knew that look.
“No,” he said again.
“We’re not doing anything,” Spoke replied.
“I can see you thinking.”
“Thinking is free.”
“Not around hats.”
Wemmbu smiled. “What if we bought them for ourselves?”
Parrot stared.
Spoke slowly put the knitted cap on his own head.
It was too small. The ear holes sat near his temples. He looked ridiculous.
Wemmbu placed the yellow hat on Parrot’s head.
The brim tipped forward over one eye.
There was a silence.
Spoke’s eyes widened.
Wemmbu looked delighted.
Flame returned just in time to see it.
He stopped.
The book was in a paper bag in his hand.
Parrot should have taken the hat off immediately.
He did not.
Flame’s gaze settled on him.
The smallest smile moved across his face.
“It suits you,” he said.
Parrot’s brain shut down.
Spoke made a high, pained sound.
Wemmbu looked like he might actually collapse.
Parrot took the hat off and handed it back to the vendor with all the speed and dignity of a person trying to escape a burning building.
“It does not,” he said.
Flame’s ears went pink. “I thought it did.”
“You think everything I do is nice.”
Flame blinked. “Not everything.”
“Name one thing.”
Flame looked at him for half a second.
Then, with a smile he did not bother to hide, he said, “When you skip lunch because you’re making sure everyone else ate.”
Parrot went still.
Wemmbu’s expression softened immediately.
Spoke took off the knitted cap.
Flame stepped closer. The crowd flowed around them, bright and noisy and distant somehow.
“I don’t like that,” Flame said quietly. “You should eat too.”
Parrot opened his mouth.
No answer came.
Because Flame was right. Because Parrot had been so focused on the list and the bags and the possibility of Spoke buying a chicken that he had not even noticed the hollow feeling in his stomach.
Flame held up the second apple tart.
“I saved this,” he said.
Parrot looked at it.
Then at Flame.
“You didn’t eat yours?”
“I wanted to share.”
Something in Parrot’s chest cracked open, gentle and helpless.
He took the pastry.
This time, he did not break off a piece first.
He held it between them.
Flame’s eyes softened.
They took a bite at the same time, awkwardly because Flame was taller and Parrot had to lift his hand farther than expected. Their shoulders bumped. The pastry crumbled a little on the napkin.
Wemmbu made a soft, emotional noise.
Spoke looked at the ground with a smile he was trying to hide.
Parrot chewed, swallowed, and looked at Flame.
“You were right,” he said.
Flame’s expression went still.
“I know,” Parrot added quickly, because he could see Flame trying not to make it into a victory. “Not about the hat. That is still absurd.”
Flame laughed.
“Okay,” he said.
Parrot’s fingers brushed his as he lowered the tart.
For a moment, their hands stayed together.
Then Spoke pointed across the aisle.
“Wait,” he said. “Is that a shopping cart?”
Parrot’s entire body tensed.
“No.”
Spoke looked at him. “You don’t know what I’m going to say.”
“I do.”
“What if it’s abandoned?”
“It is not.”
“What if it needs to be returned to the person who owns it?”
“You are not pushing a cart.”
“I wasn’t going to push it.”
Wemmbu looked at the cart.
Then at Spoke.
Then at Parrot.
“Oh no,” Flame said.
The cart belonged to the bakery stall.
It was a small metal trolley piled with empty bread crates, standing unattended near the back of the tent while the baker served a line of customers.
There was no reason for Spoke and Wemmbu to be near it.
There was even less reason for them to be touching it.
Parrot had only looked away long enough to thank the hat vendor for not selling them a dog accessory. When he turned back, Spoke had one hand around the trolley handle.
Wemmbu stood beside him, eyes shining.
Flame stood very still.
“Spoke,” Parrot said.
Spoke looked over his shoulder. “I’m not doing anything.”
“Your hand is on the trolley.”
“It could be a friendly hand.”
“Trolleys do not need friends.”
“Everyone needs friends,” Wemmbu said.
“Not trolleys.”
“You don’t know its life.”
“I know enough.”
Spoke shifted his weight.
The cart rolled forward half an inch.
Parrot’s heart stopped.
“Do not,” he said.
Spoke looked at Flame.
Flame shook his head once.
Spoke looked at Wemmbu.
Wemmbu looked at Parrot.
For one beautiful, suspended second, it seemed possible that they would listen.
Then a child on the far side of the square ran past them, laughing, and Spoke’s eyes lit up.
“I bet I can get to the fountain before you,” he told Wemmbu.
“No,” Parrot said.
“I can,” Wemmbu replied.
“No.”
Spoke pushed the trolley.
Wemmbu grabbed the side.
The empty crates rattled.
Flame moved first.
He caught the back of the trolley before it gained any real speed, one hand on the handle and the other around Spoke’s waist. The whole thing stopped so abruptly that Wemmbu bounced lightly against the crates and laughed.
Spoke made a startled noise.
Parrot stood frozen.
Not because anyone was hurt.
No one was hurt. Flame had them. Of course he did.
But the sound of the cart wheels scraping pavement, the sight of Spoke’s grin falling away when he realized how close he had come to a bad idea, the sudden sharp fear beneath Parrot’s ribs—it all hit at once.
“Spoke,” Parrot said.
His voice came out quiet.
That was worse than yelling.
Spoke went still.
Wemmbu’s smile faded.
Flame kept one hand gently at Spoke’s waist, anchoring him, but his eyes moved to Parrot.
Parrot looked at the cart. At the crates. At the busy aisle where people were walking with children and coffee cups and bags full of fragile things.
Then he looked at Spoke.
“I said no,” he said.
Spoke’s face changed.
Not dramatic. Not defensive.
Just a small, immediate drop in his shoulders.
“I know,” he said.
The words were barely audible.
Parrot’s anger deflated so quickly it left him tired.
He hated this part. The part where he had to be the person who stopped things. The part where a reasonable boundary could suddenly feel like rejection if he was not careful. The part where Spoke looked like someone had switched the lights off behind his eyes.
Flame’s gaze stayed on Parrot, steady and patient.
Giving him room.
Parrot took a breath.
“I’m not mad because you wanted to have fun,” he said.
Spoke looked up.
“I’m mad because someone could have gotten hurt,” Parrot continued. “You could have gotten hurt.”
The market felt quieter, though it was not. The baker was still serving customers. A pigeon strutted through a puddle near the curb. Someone’s radio played softly from a stall farther down.
Spoke nodded once.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
“I know.”
Wemmbu put one hand on Spoke’s arm. “We’re sorry.”
Parrot looked at him too.
Wemmbu’s expression had lost all its usual mischief. He looked worried. Not for himself. For Spoke. For Parrot. For the little crack that had opened in the morning and needed fixing before it became anything bigger.
“I know,” Parrot repeated.
Then Flame spoke, quiet and clear.
“Let’s help put the cart back.”
Spoke nodded immediately.
“Okay,” he said.
They did not need to ask the baker. The trolley had only moved a few feet. Flame released Spoke’s waist slowly, making sure he was steady. Then Spoke and Wemmbu each took one side, and together they guided it back to the stall.
Parrot watched them walk it carefully this time.
No racing.
No jokes.
Just two people doing what needed doing.
The baker glanced up as they returned it.
“Sorry,” Spoke said.
“Sorry,” Wemmbu echoed.
The baker looked at the trolley. Then at the two of them. Then at Flame standing a few steps away with the bags and Parrot beside him.
“You two aren’t taking that anywhere, are you?” he asked.
“No,” Spoke said.
“Definitely not,” Wemmbu said.
The baker considered them.
Then he pointed at the trolley handle.
“Banned,” he said.
Spoke’s mouth dropped open.
Wemmbu put a hand to his heart.
“Again?” he whispered.
Parrot did not mean to laugh.
He did anyway.
It slipped out of him, startled and helpless.
Spoke looked over.
For a second, uncertainty flashed in his eyes.
Then he saw Parrot smiling.
Not because the situation had been fine. It had not.
But because Spoke was okay. Wemmbu was okay. Flame was okay. Because the cart was back where it belonged. Because apologies had been said. Because they were still here, still together, still able to move past a mistake without pretending it had not happened.
Spoke’s smile came back.
Small at first.
Then brighter.
“Banned from two things in one day,” he said. “That has to be a record.”
“Do not make it a record,” Parrot said.
Wemmbu leaned into Spoke’s side. “We are outlaws.”
“You are banned from a bell and a cart,” Flame said. “You are not outlaws.”
“Tell that to the system,” Wemmbu replied.
Parrot looked at him.
Wemmbu’s smile wobbled.
Then Parrot reached out and took his hand.
Wemmbu blinked.
“You’re not bad,” Parrot said quietly. “Neither of you.”
Spoke stopped moving.
Flame’s gaze softened.
Parrot looked between them.
“You made a bad choice,” he continued. “That happens. You apologize. You do better next time.”
Spoke’s eyes went shiny for one dangerous second.
He laughed before it could become anything else. “You make that sound very reasonable.”
“It is reasonable.”
“Yeah,” Spoke said, softer. “It is.”
Wemmbu squeezed Parrot’s hand.
Then, because he was still Wemmbu, he said, “Does this mean I can name the spoon?”
“No.”
Spoke laughed so hard he had to wipe his eyes.
They left the market shortly afterward.
Not because they had been forced out.
Parrot wanted that stated clearly, mostly to himself.
They had completed the list. They had paid for everything. They had not caused any additional public incidents for almost fifteen minutes. Their bags were full. The noon crowd had started to thicken, and Parrot had reached the point where a home with closed cupboards and no suspicious bells sounded deeply appealing.
They walked back through the town square more slowly than they had arrived.
Flame carried the large bag again, but only after Parrot had finished the apple tart and admitted, under pressure, that carrying the bags had begun to hurt his hands.
Flame did not say I told you so.
He just took the bags, shifted the heaviest strap over his shoulder, and bumped his knuckles gently against Parrot’s.
Parrot took the hint and held his hand.
On Flame’s other side, Spoke walked with his hands stuffed in his pockets. His usual energy had settled into something quieter, not unhappy but thoughtful. Wemmbu stayed close beside him, shoulder brushing his every few steps.
Parrot watched them for a moment.
Then he slowed slightly.
“Spoke,” he said.
Spoke looked at him. “Yeah?”
“You did well at the farm stand.”
Spoke blinked. “With the chicken?”
“Yes.”
“I didn’t do anything.”
“You wanted to,” Parrot said. “And you didn’t. You listened.”
Spoke’s mouth opened.
Closed.
Color rose in his cheeks.
“Oh,” he said.
Parrot kept walking. “That matters.”
Spoke looked down at the pavement.
Then, after a second, he bumped his shoulder against Wemmbu’s. “Did you hear that?”
Wemmbu smiled. “I did.”
“Parrot said I did well.”
“I know.”
“You should write it down.”
“I’m not giving you evidence to weaponize later,” Parrot said.
Spoke laughed.
The sound was brighter this time.
Wemmbu looked at Parrot.
“And me?” he asked, teasingly, but not entirely.
Parrot knew.
He always knew with them, eventually.
“You apologized,” he said. “You helped fix it. And you did not buy the forks.”
Wemmbu grinned. “High praise.”
“Take it.”
“I am taking it.”
Then he reached out and wrapped both arms around Parrot’s free arm as they walked.
Parrot sighed.
“You are going to make it difficult to walk.”
“I am making it emotionally easier.”
“That is not how walking works.”
“It is now.”
Flame laughed beside him.
Parrot did not argue after that.
At home, Ashen greeted them with the unrestrained joy of someone who had spent three hours waiting for people to return and was prepared to make that everyone’s problem.
He bounded down the hallway, nails clicking against the floor, tail wagging so hard his whole back half moved with it.
Spoke dropped to his knees immediately.
“Ashen!”
Ashen launched himself into him with enough enthusiasm to make Spoke fall backward onto the entry rug.
Wemmbu stepped over them carefully. “He missed you.”
“He is trying to crush me,” Spoke said, laughing as Ashen licked his chin.
“Same thing,” Wemmbu replied.
Parrot set the spoon package on the kitchen counter. “Shoes off. Bags in the kitchen. Perishables first.”
Flame put the bags down without being asked.
Parrot began unpacking the groceries. Apples in the fruit bowl. Vegetables into the refrigerator. Bread on the counter. Eggs safely placed in their shelf. Honey in the pantry. Jam beside the peanut butter.
Normal things.
Useful things.
His hands moved automatically, but the day had left a soft tiredness behind his eyes. The market had been louder than expected. The crowd had been bigger. The cart incident had taken more out of him than he had wanted to admit.
Flame noticed, because Flame noticed everything.
He came to stand beside Parrot at the counter.
“Sit down,” he said quietly.
“I’m almost done.”
“I can finish.”
“I know.”
Flame waited.
Parrot looked at the last few items on the counter: the hot sauce, the lavender, the dog treats, the antique spoon.
Then he looked at Flame.
“You can finish,” he said.
Flame’s expression softened.
“Okay.”
Parrot sat at the kitchen table.
It felt strange at first, doing nothing while Flame unpacked the last bags. Not wrong. Just unfamiliar. Flame moved around the kitchen with calm efficiency, putting the hot sauce on the high shelf where Spoke could not immediately add it to breakfast, setting the lavender in a small glass jar near the window, placing the dog treats in the cabinet.
Wemmbu came in and perched sideways on the chair beside Parrot.
He was holding the little wrapped spoon.
“Can I open it?” he asked.
Parrot looked at the package.
“Yes.”
Wemmbu opened the old paper carefully, folding each corner back instead of tearing it. Inside, the spoon was exactly as it had been at the market: tarnished, slightly bent, engraved with curling leaves.
He held it up.
“It really does have character,” he said.
“It has a dent,” Parrot said.
“It has survived.”
Parrot looked at it for a moment.
Then he smiled a little. “It has survived.”
Wemmbu’s eyes widened.
“Did you just agree with me?”
“Do not make it weird.”
“I will make it beautiful.”
“You will polish it before it goes in the drawer.”
“Okay.”
He turned the spoon over in his hands. “Do you think it belonged to someone?”
“Yes,” Parrot said. “Probably.”
“Do you think they loved it?”
Parrot looked at him.
Wemmbu’s smile was there, but quiet.
Not a joke. Not quite.
Parrot reached over and took the spoon, examining the curling leaves on the handle.
“I think somebody kept it,” he said. “Long enough for it to get old.”
Wemmbu watched him.
Parrot handed it back.
“And I think that means somebody thought it mattered.”
The kitchen was quiet.
Flame set the last jar in the pantry and did not turn around.
Giving them privacy without leaving.
Wemmbu’s fingers closed around the spoon.
“Yeah,” he said.
Then he smiled again, a little brighter. “I’m naming it Sir Scoops-a-Lot.”
“No,” Parrot said.
Spoke appeared in the doorway with Ashen’s head tucked under one arm. “That’s an incredible name.”
“It is not.”
“It is,” Flame said.
Parrot looked at him.
Flame’s expression was entirely innocent.
“You are all banned from naming cutlery,” Parrot declared.
Spoke gasped. “Another ban?”
“Three in one day,” Wemmbu said. “We really are criminals.”
Ashen barked, apparently in agreement.
Lunch was leftovers, bread, cheese, sliced apples, and the last of the rain-cloud cookies from the previous week.
It was not elaborate.
It did not need to be.
They ate at the kitchen table with the windows open just enough to let a soft breeze move through the room. The lavender stood in its jar beside the sink. The antique spoon rested on a folded napkin near Wemmbu’s plate because he had refused to put it down.
Spoke had made a small sign from a scrap of paper.
SIR SCOOPS-A-LOT — HONORARY HOUSEHOLD MEMBER
Parrot read it.
Then he took the pen from Spoke’s hand.
“No.”
Spoke looked wounded. “You’re crushing his legacy.”
“He is a spoon.”
“He has endured hardship.”
“He fell off a table.”
“That is how legends begin,” Wemmbu said.
Flame took a bite of bread, eyes bright with a smile.
Parrot looked at him. “Say it.”
Flame blinked. “What?”
“You have a comment.”
“I don’t.”
“You do.”
Flame hesitated.
Spoke leaned close. “Say it.”
Flame’s ears went faintly pink.
Then he looked at Parrot and said, “I think it’s nice that you bought it.”
The table went quiet.
Parrot looked down at his plate.
“It was six dollars,” he said.
“I know.”
“It was bent.”
“I know.”
“It was not a significant purchase.”
Flame’s voice stayed gentle. “It mattered to Wemmbu.”
Parrot looked up.
Flame was watching him with that familiar, steady softness. Not making a grand thing of it. Not praising him in a way that would make Parrot want to hide beneath the table.
Just naming something true.
Wemmbu’s fingers had gone still around the spoon.
Parrot cleared his throat. “He is not allowed to buy more spoons.”
Wemmbu smiled. “Of course not.”
“Or forks.”
“Obviously.”
“Or antique things that claim to be ‘emotionally available.’”
“That one feels oddly specific,” Spoke said.
“It is specific.”
Flame’s smile widened.
Parrot took another bite of bread and pretended he had not noticed.
After lunch, Spoke announced that he had learned something important.
Parrot knew this was dangerous because Spoke only used that tone when he had either made a genuinely insightful observation or decided that birds probably had a secret government.
“What?” Parrot asked carefully.
Spoke leaned back in his chair. “We need market rules.”
Wemmbu’s eyes widened. “Like a code?”
“Like a code,” Spoke said.
Parrot looked at Flame.
Flame had one hand over his mouth.
He was trying not to laugh.
“You are not helping,” Parrot said.
“I know.”
“You are not sorry.”
“No,” Flame admitted.
Spoke found a notepad.
Parrot did not ask where it came from. He had learned. There were some mysteries better left unsolved.
“Rule one,” Spoke said, writing in large uneven letters. “No touching bells.”
Wemmbu lifted a hand. “Unless you are staff.”
“No,” Parrot said.
“Unless we are staff,” Spoke corrected.
“No.”
“Okay. Rule one: No bells.”
“Good.”
“Rule two: No carts.”
“Good.”
“Rule three: No buying chickens without a group vote.”
Parrot stopped.
Flame stopped too.
Wemmbu looked interested. “A group vote?”
“No,” Parrot said immediately. “No buying chickens.”
Spoke wrote it down anyway.
NO BUYING CHICKENS WITHOUT A GROUP VOTE.
“Spoke.”
“We are compromising.”
“We are not.”
Flame leaned closer to Parrot. “We can revisit it if anyone ever actually wants a chicken.”
Parrot looked at him.
Flame’s expression was patient.
Open.
Not agreeing to a chicken. Not promising anything. Just refusing to dismiss an idea before it was real.
Parrot exhaled.
“Fine,” he said. “We can revisit it.”
Spoke grinned. “Democracy wins.”
“We are not voting today.”
“Today,” Wemmbu echoed.
“No.”
Spoke wrote rule four.
PARROT GETS TO EAT LUNCH.
The room went quiet.
Parrot stared at the page.
Spoke did not look at him. His handwriting went a little slower as he underlined the words.
Flame’s shoulder brushed Parrot’s.
Wemmbu looked down at the spoon in his hands.
Parrot felt something in his throat tighten.
“That’s not a market rule,” he said, aiming for casual.
“It should be,” Spoke said.
“Why?”
Spoke looked up.
Because he was Spoke, the answer came with a small shrug and a crooked smile, as if he had not just written something honest enough to make the whole room softer.
“Because you make sure we all eat,” he said. “So we should make sure you do too.”
Parrot did not know what to do with that.
He looked at Flame.
Flame’s eyes were warm. Not surprised. Not even particularly pleased in a showy way.
Just proud.
Parrot looked back at Spoke.
“You’re not supposed to make rules about me,” he said.
Spoke smiled. “Too late.”
Wemmbu reached across the table and touched the edge of Parrot’s sleeve.
“We like taking care of you too,” he said.
The words landed gently.
That was somehow the worst part.
If they had been loud, Parrot could have argued. He could have accused them of being dramatic. He could have escaped into a joke or a list or a very urgent need to reorganize the spice cabinet.
But they were gentle.
So Parrot had nowhere to go.
He covered Wemmbu’s hand with his own.
Then he reached across the table for Spoke’s hand too.
Spoke’s fingers curled around his immediately.
“I know,” Parrot said.
Spoke’s smile softened.
“Good,” he said.
Flame’s hand found Parrot’s knee beneath the table.
Warm. Steady.
Home, Parrot thought.
Not a place where nobody made mistakes.
Not a place where everyone behaved, or every plan worked, or every spoon stayed where it belonged.
A place where people could be careless and apologize. Where they could be afraid of being too much and be answered anyway. Where love did not disappear the moment somebody needed a boundary.
A place where someone always noticed when he had skipped lunch.
A place where a six-dollar spoon could become a story because it mattered to someone he loved.
He squeezed their hands once.
“Rule five,” he said.
Spoke sat up. “There’s a rule five?”
“Yes.”
Wemmbu looked delighted. “What is it?”
Parrot thought about the bell. The cart. The chicken. The tiredness in Spoke’s face when Parrot had gone quiet. The softness in Wemmbu’s when he had asked if the spoon could come home. Flame’s hand between his shoulder blades, trusting him to find the right words.
Then he looked at all three of them.
“Stay where I can see you,” he said.
The kitchen went silent.
Spoke’s expression changed first.
Not into a joke.
Not right away.
Something warm and startled moved over his face.
Wemmbu’s fingers tightened around Parrot’s.
Flame’s thumb brushed once against Parrot’s knee.
Finally, Spoke smiled.
“Okay,” he said.
Wemmbu nodded. “Okay.”
Flame looked at Parrot.
“Okay,” he said too.
Parrot looked down at the market rules.
They were a mess. The handwriting was crooked. There was a doodle of a chicken in the corner and a small, deeply unflattering drawing of a bell with angry eyebrows. The page would probably end up stuck to the fridge, where Spoke would add to it in secret and Wemmbu would draw tiny crowns around the word spoons.
It was not orderly.
It was not efficient.
It was perfect.
Later, Parrot found the wrapped paper from the antique stall folded neatly beside the spoon drawer.
Wemmbu had written something on it in looping pen.
Sir Scoops-a-Lot — survived a fall, found a home.
Parrot stared at it for a long moment.
Then he opened the spoon drawer.
There was room.
Not much.
But enough.
He put the spoon inside.