Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Dingo grew up with the conventional childhood teachings about soulmates. He was told his blood would feel like lightning when they touched for the first time. He was told there would be a warm, welcoming burn on his cheeks heralding the arrival of his soulmarks: poetic silhouettes embodying the spirit of his eventual loved one. He was told there would be no doubt, even for a moment, that they’d be partners for life. Perhaps these lessons weren’t in those exact words, as Dingo was only five, but the gist was nonetheless clear: that the day he met his soulmate would be evident, exciting, and the best thing ever.

(“Better than new toys?” he’d asked his mum, incredulous. Then she chuckled and said that it was better than even birthday parties, and woah, his mind was blown.)

Thus Dingo waited, impatient in the way most children his age are, for time to hurry up already so he and his soulmate could meet. School was so hard and so lonely, but if he found his soulmate, he would be guaranteed to have at least one friend. Someone to play with at recess or after school or on the weekends. Someone to go on adventures with, to explore nearby parks and pools in search of weird bugs and dead things. Someone who he could swap secrets and stories with in a little tent in his parents’ backyard, lit by Dingo’s favorite lantern whenever he “roughed it” out there. It all sounded so perfect. He really couldn’t wait.

So imagine his surprise when, after fleeing his city with his parents after an imminent flood warning sent millions scattering in a panicked, pushy, cacophonous crowd, Dingo caught his reflection in the window and noticed that his cheeks now had faint markings.

They were symmetrical depictions of Crowned Cobrawks — serpent-like creatures with feathered wings that are native to Ohri’s expansive plateaus. Dingo had seen these beasts in picture books before, always looking so grand and fierce and dangerous, but the pose of his soulmarks wasn’t like that at all. They seemed curious, wings half-stretched and heads tilted as if asking a question or gauging something new. It was a side of the cobrawk Dingo hadn’t considered possible; being so little, the ability to process such things simply wasn’t all there. Under better circumstances, the dissonance might have stunned him. Maybe he would have asked about it. Maybe his mum would have told him a story, or dad about the cool facts and dangers of these wild animals.

But Dingo was exhausted after being acutely scared from the moment the blaring flood alarms started to the instant he and his family made it safely to a hotel high up on a cliff several hours later. He was still afraid, nauseous as he looked out and down at the valley below as the streets filled up with water, wondering if the extended family and precious toys he couldn’t bring along would be okay.

And now he was confused and devastated on top of it all.

Where was the lightning strike? The nice burn? The joy in their shared discovery, seeing one another for the first time? Dingo was shoved by lots and lots of people both before and after his parents picked him up to get him to safety; his dad’s arms could only shield him so much as they barged through the terrified throng. Did one of those pushes or bumps really count? Dingo wasn’t paying attention to how many people he touched! And even if he were, there were so many kids in that city below, and in a tourist town, lots of them were traveling with their parents from elsewhere on Ohri or even other worlds. Who knows? His soulmate could have been fleeing the city or the planet for good, and Dingo would be doomed to wither into nothing from being apart from them and… and then….

Dingo burst into loud, immediate tears, curling into a ball against the windowsill. “I don’t wanna die!”

The room they were staying in was small; it took no time at all for Dingo’s mother to appear behind him, picking him up and pulling him into a tight embrace. “Shh. There, there, my little fireball. It’s okay. I’ve got you.” Dingo felt his mum’s lips pepper his forehead with kisses. He clung, still sobbing as she spoke. “I know it’s frightening, but we’re going to be okay. The flood should be gone by tomorrow morning. Then we can go home and—.”

Quivering like a leaf in a whirlwind, Dingo shook his head so hard, he almost rammed it against his mum’s shoulder. “No! Not the flood, mum! My face!”

There was a pause. “Your face?”

Dingo opened his mouth to try to explain, but all that came out was even more desperate crying than before.

His mum held him back and away, leaving Dingo cold and exposed. Dingo couldn’t see well past his own tears, but he could make out a blurry smear in his dad’s shape rushing over and turning up the brightness of the light closest to the window. Then, getting closer, he felt his dad’s calloused palm against his cheek. A second passed before he heard him and his mum gasp.

“Darling,” his dad hissed, voice low and pained. “Those are—.”

“Soulmarks.” Dingo felt his mum pull him back in and he whined, curling into her, feeling her voice against his face just as much as he heard it. “Oh, Dingo, sweetie—.”

“I didn’t see who it was!” Dingo wailed. “I was scared, and I didn’t feel the soulmate zap or the tingle-burn or anything! I— the flood— I didn’t want to die. But now I’ll die without my soulmate and I’ll never go on summer vacation or grow up or explore the universe or—!”

“Ah,” his dad breathed. “Are you worried about soulmate separation sickness?”

Dingo managed to nod despite his bawling.

“Baby, it’s okay,” Dingo’s mum murmured, combing her fingers through his hair. “You won’t die from it. And you probably won’t get sick, okay?” His dad began scratching at Dingo’s upper back, too, causing Dingo to start subsiding into sniffles. “Soulmate separation sickness only happens if you’ve spent a lot of time with them — and we know you haven’t because you just got your marks today. All right, honey? You won’t die. Deep breaths.”

“Deep breaths,” his dad echoed. “Shh.”

For the next few minutes, Dingo tried to follow his parents’ advice. At first it was hard, with his lungs shaking and shuddering and with snot running down the back of his throat, but eventually, Dingo had relaxed to something manageable. Between his parents’ soothing croons and words, their kisses and nuzzles, and their hugs and touches, Dingo found it in himself to be calm again.

But that didn’t mean he felt all better.

“Mum? Dad?”

“Yeah, champ?” his dad said, brushing Dingo’s hair out of his face.

From where he sat sandwiched between his parents, Dingo peered up at them, pleading and miserable. “How am I gonna find my soulmate now? How will I know who they are if I don’t feel all the things?”

Dingo’s mum smiled, tired but with endless affection. Dingo was too young to realize that the reassurances to come would be the extrapolations of an exhausted but loving parent, hoping dearly that her words would provide solace to her son. “You’ll know them when you meet them, my little sunspot. There won’t even be a doubt, or a question, or anything. You’ll just know, Dingo.”

“Promise?” Dingo worried at the lowermost hem of her shirt, ears flattened, eyes huge and damp.

“I promise,” she hummed, petting Dingo’s hair. His dad looked to her, apprehensive in a way Dingo neither caught nor could process. Perhaps that was okay. As far as Dingo knew, he had the truth now. He would live, and they would go back home tomorrow, and he didn’t ruin his chances of finding his soulmate. Dingo would know exactly who they were when they met again — for real, this time, without a natural disaster to ruin everything. And he clung so hard to that hope.

Dingo refused to let go.

#

A few years passed. Warm season had just begun, and the valley was recovering from a less-rainy end to the cool season than usual. Seeds from plants that anticipated a hotter climate with soil this dry were sprouting, unprepared for the chill shade beneath the boughs of old, unyielding trees. For those sprouts, the weather was a curse; but to young Ohrians, it meant that outdoor recess restarted blessedly early, as it meant they’d track less mud and silt back to class.

For Dingo, this was nothing short of a huge relief. Indoor recess was decent and all, but he knew in his bones he was a wild thing: eight years old, full of energy and spunk, willing to endure any weather because it meant he was alive and part of it all. Racing into the light with the crease of his bagged lunch in his teeth, he darted to a courtyard lined with trees and unsheathed his claws, practically running up a trunk just as much as he climbed.

Once he made it to a solid branch, Dingo stretched and whooped, almost sending his lunch toppling to the ground. At once, Dingo gasped, sliding forward and upside-down, snagging the bag with both hands as his thighs straddled the bough. Then, with a relieved sigh, he curled back upwards and opened it, lounging against the branch like a satisfied space-bear.

This was it: the perfect perch. As eager as Dingo was to play right now, he was even more eager to eat, and the rules said he couldn’t outside of this courtyard. Something about how benches and lunch tables were there and grownups hated the fun of having food involved with play, or whatever. He got in trouble for disobeying before, so in the courtyard he’d be, if only by technicality. The teachers would have to pry Dingo out of this tree if they wanted him down! He would not be contained! Take that, Miss Wulf!

Thankfully, no one approached Dingo as he ate. Perhaps they didn’t notice him; he was well-camouflaged amidst the orange and red leaves, and even the branches had a rough color match to his skin tone. He told himself it was for the best because he was like a king surveying the expansive playground before him, paying no heed to the rabble of peasants below. Why should he bother listening to the other kids, anyway? Making friends was no easier now than it was back when he was five or six or seven. If anything, it was worse. Everyone could see, plain on Dingo’s face, that he had “met” his soulmate — a soulmate who wasn’t spending any time with him, who he didn’t play with and they never saw. He naively tried telling the truth back when he first got asked, but none of his classmates believed it. They already called him weird for his outdoorsy spirit when they’re growing up in a city, but someone whose soulmate didn’t want to be near him? Of course it meant there was something wrong with Dingo, even though — shocker — it wasn’t true.

And who needed that, huh? Dingo certainly didn’t. He knew he’d find his soulmate sooner or later and that would prove them wrong. It was only a matter of time.

Crumpling his now-empty bag into a ball, Dingo took aim at the nearest recycler beneath him. A precise toss landed it in the dead center of the opening, causing the bin to light up as it sent the paper to be processed elsewhere. “Score!” Dingo whispered, pumping his fist in the air. Triumphant and energized, he peered directly beneath himself to gauge the quickest and safest way back down so he could run to the field by the playground.

It was only then Dingo realized how high up he was.

His vision swam. With a meep, Dingo clung tighter to the bough, his back arched and knees shaking. Dingo’s breathing and heartbeat became uneasy as he tried to fight his vertigo. Quiet and pathetic, he whimpered from his branch. Oh, no. No, no, no, this isn’t happening. I’m braver than this! I’m tough!

As he struggled over the next ten minutes to slowly, slowly inch himself down the side of the tree (making it halfway), the sounds of his peers in the courtyard began to fade. The realization made him half-slip down a branch, causing it to crack underneath him. He hissed and clamored back up, the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end, though he was less afraid and more enraged. All the teachers were escorting the kids to the playground! To have fun without him! While he was stuck here! And his time for recess was dwindling away because of his own, stupid cowardice!

Dingo grit his teeth. As he moved down another branch past the one that broke, swallowing his nausea as best he could, he heard loud bootsteps tromping nearby. After a second, it dawned on Dingo that they were coming towards the base of the tree. He froze, eyes widening, wondering if he was about to get in trouble with one of the teachers for his mild act of rebellion.

“Hey, sweater vest!”

Dingo’s left ear swiveled. Sweater vest? His mind raced, and three things occurred to him. One, there was no way the voice was talking to him; Dingo wouldn’t be caught dead in a sweater vest. Two, there was also no way the voice belonged to a grownup; it sounded like one of the bigger boys — the ones about to age out into another school. And three, there was absolutely no way that the owner of the voice was approaching his addressee with good intentions. He sounded snobby. Harsh. Antagonistic.

From below, Dingo heard a soft, unimpressed “hmm.”

Silent, Dingo bowed his head and peered through the leaves and branches beneath him in an attempt to pinpoint where the hum came from. Doing so was scary, yes, because it was so easy to fall, but he had a bad feeling about this. He needed to know what was going on.

After creeping forward a little bit more, Dingo finally got a visual. Not one, but two older boys were in front of a bench under the tree, facing someone sitting down who Dingo couldn’t quite see past all the leaves.

“Hey!” snapped one of the older boys — the one who didn’t speak earlier. Sporting slick blue hair and a ratty tank top, he smacked his hand against the backrest of the bench what must have been only a breath away from the sitting kid’s face. “Didn’t you hear him? He’s talking to you!”

The other older boy huffed and crossed his arms — a blond with a fancy-pants coat like he was some private school stuck-up and not a public school joke like the rest of them. “Yeah, four-eyes. I’m talking to you!”

“I have a name, you know.” Dingo felt a light tremble run up his spine at the younger boy’s voice. He barely had time to process it — the rough but light lilt, somehow warm and cold at once — before he pushed aside some leaves and caught sight of its source. All at once, his brain emptied of everything else.

Because, yeah. Even though he looked to be about Dingo’s age, Dingo would have definitely remembered this guy if they shared any classes. He was striking. If Dingo weren’t afraid of being spotted, he would have scooted forward to get a better view, but even from his vantage point, he could make out warm, dark skin and curly, coiled, deep-green hair: the color of insular forests in the far north, so different from the russet leaves dominating the continent. It was held up in a thick, fluffy ponytail by a dark blue band that matched the boy’s sweater vest — a sweater vest which, and Dingo couldn’t believe he was thinking this, actually looked good on him. There was a glare of light off the boy’s glasses, making it hard for Dingo to see his eyes, but the glasses themselves seemed nice. Not shades-level cool, but not dorky, either. And the boy was, in general, well-dressed. His clothes didn’t scream playground and adventure attire, but it was a look and that guy was owning it.

“Yeah, whatever,” huffed Fancy Coat, effectively ripping Dingo out of his reverie and back to the present. “Do you think that was funny?”

Sweater Vest snapped a book shut, almost startling Dingo right out of the tree; he hadn’t noticed the tome until now. It rested on Sweater Vest’s lap and looked like a doorstop, even from high above. “Define ‘that,’” Sweater Vest hummed, and Dingo felt another tremor down his back. Even though he couldn’t see it, he could hear the cool, relaxed grin.

Tank Top smacked his other hand on the back of the bench, clacking his teeth in a blatant, threatening display. Dingo’s spine bristled. “You know what we’re talking about, loser!” he snapped. “Do you think that was funny, making a fool of us in Lit Class?”

“Oh, is that what you think happened?” Dingo heard an edge of amusement in Sweater Vest’s tone. “All I did was give the correct answer; I assure you, I bear no ill will. I suggest actually doing the reading so that you can respond properly if the teacher calls on you.”

Yeah! Dingo caught himself thinking, smirking in the canopy. You tell them! They can buzz off! It felt odd, feeling so supportive when Dingo himself was terrible at doing reading assignments, but what could he say? He admired this guy’s vibes.

Meanwhile, Tank Top snarled, pulling back and rolling up a sleeve. “Why, I oughta—!”

He was stopped by Fancy Coat, who pushed his friend back and yanked the book out of Sweater Vest’s hand. There was a gasp. “What are you—?”

“Ooh, lookie here,” Fancy Coat crowed. “Looks like Good Grades McGee can’t afford his own copy of the reading.”

“Hey! That’s a library book!” Sweater Vest tried to reach up to snatch it back, but was too short to do so.

Fancy Coat laughed. “Sure would be a shame if you had to return it all covered in mud and stomped to pieces, wouldn’t it, teacher’s pet?”

From his vantage point, Dingo growled. He called it — this exchange was going belly-up fast, and for what? A couple of big bullies’ misplaced pride? It genuinely didn’t sound like the boy his age went out of his way to make either of them look bad. Being frustrated at looking dumb in class was one thing, but taking it out on an innocent classmate wasn’t right!

“Cut it out!” Sweater Vest hissed, grabbing at Fancy Coat’s lapel and stretching out his hand. “I only answered a question; you two did the ‘fool’ thing all by yourselves!”

It was a great burn, but it didn’t help Sweater Vest on his mission to get his book back. Tank Top grabbed him by the scruff, held him up with one hand, and poised his fist with the other. Fancy Coat stood aside, holding the book and cackling as Sweater Vest went involuntarily limp.

Something snapped inside of Dingo. Adrenaline and instinct blazed.

“You like school so much? Then it’s about time you learned an important lesson, punk,” Tank Top huffed.

Dingo was no longer listening; the drive for justice roared in his veins, and he couldn’t hear anything else. Long ago, his parents called him “physically gifted,” and it was time for his strength to be put to use. Swift and sharp, he finished tearing off the bough he’d nearly broken while trying to scale down the tree. The branch was heavy, and as long as Dingo was tall, with a thick base where it originally stemmed off of the trunk and a thinner but still sturdy tip.

In other words, it was perfect. No longer fearing the height, Dingo slid down to the lowest branch he could that stayed right above the bullies.

Tank Top pulled his fist back further. “Talk heat, get bea—.”

He never got to finish. Dingo hooked his legs to the branch and allowed gravity to swerve his body down and forward. At the same time, he held the stick like a club and swung it with a mighty roar. Tank Top turned towards his left too late to dodge; Dingo slammed the thick end of the branch against the older kid’s exposed shoulder. The hit wasn’t as direct as Dingo wanted thanks to the angle, but it was hard; it cut Tank Top’s skin and caused him to skid backwards, screaming in pain and shock. Sweater Vest, freed from the scruffing, landed on his rear while Tank Top spun into the trunk of the tree. The force was just enough for him to hit his head and collapse, unconscious, to the dirt. Fancy Coat also let out a frightened yelp as Dingo quickly dropped to the ground and turned on him, baring his teeth and brandishing his stick with a snarl.

“Drop it!” Dingo boomed. He punctuated his command with a rumbly growl as if to say, Or else.

Fancy Coat turned tail and fled, the book slipping out of his quaking hands and splatting on the moist soil below.

Dingo panted. Fingers quivering, he let the stick thump to the ground, feeling jelly-limbed and overcharged from the rush to his system. Walking over to the book, he picked it up off the dirt and rubbed it clean against his red cargo shorts, getting grime on himself in the process. It wasn’t a bother; he set the book down on the bench and turned around to face his peer. “You okay, mate?” Dingo blurted, holding out his hand before he could take in the sight before him.

The boy in the sweater vest stared at Dingo: clothes ruffled, mouth slightly agape, dark eyes wide and glimmering behind tilted glasses. Was he afraid or awed? He wasn’t making any moves to take Dingo up on his silent offer. Not that Dingo had the spoons to think about it; he must have been loopy from all the excitement, because for a brief moment, something inside of Dingo insisted that this guy was pretty, what with his stature and face and hair and ears. He would have shaken it off — his dad told him he couldn’t call a bloke pretty without offending him — but instead Dingo got distracted by something else.

Soulmarks, in the silhouette of a campfire, curled up this guy’s cheeks. Where one might have expected crossed logs, there was instead a pair of daggers clashing at the blades, their curved edges cupping the sides of the flames.

They were the coolest things Dingo had ever seen.

The other boy wiped his hand against his chest, claws loosely catching in his vest as he clutched it. Then he reached out, looking for all the world like he was staring into space. “Yeah,” he breathed, and Dingo could have sworn he sounded faint. “I am now.”

Dingo moved to meet the boy halfway. However, just as they were about to touch, he heard Fancy Coat shout from behind.

“That’s him! He did it! He knocked my friend out cold!”

Then Dingo felt a gloved adult hand scruff him by the back of his neck and he squeaked, going utterly limp in their grasp.

#

“Wait, stop! Put him down! Ma’am, please, listen to me—!”

Slam!

Today was the day Yonny learned not all adults would be willing to take the time to hear him out. The recess monitor locked everyone but him inside through a staff-only door, not acknowledging his protests in the least. Biting his lip, he furrowed his brows and drummed his fingers against the auto-locked metal frame, quickly becoming lost in thought.

Yonny’s heart felt so weird in his chest; before today, he had known the sensations of it racing, squeezing, and twanging, but never all at once. Though he supposed it was only fair, since he had also never experienced so many varied emotions in such a short time.

Calm, quiet amusement. Shock, then panic, then anger. Fear and resignation: a sour and sad acceptance for an inevitable black eye and bloody nose.

The ones he would have gotten, that is… until he showed up.

Logically, Yonny understood that his first impression only lasted a second or two. But in the moment, the world around him went in slow motion; every detail stitched seamlessly into his brain. There, the instant before disaster, a boy swung into the scene like the slash of a space-cat’s claws. A classic novel Yonny recently read for school told the story of a man raised by jungle beasts; he would swing from trees and defend the animals he loved from all who wished them harm. The boy looked quite different from how Zantar was described, but encountering him emulated what Yonny imagined would be the feeling of seeing such a person in real life: his mouth was open wide in a wild cry, his fangs were bared, and leaves were stuck in his clothes and shaggy red hair. He held his improvised weapon like a vice, using the potential energy of gravity, the force of inertia, and his own lean muscle to enhance a wicked blow — one he had no reason to make except to save a kid he didn’t know.

Was that calculated, or instinctive? Yonny didn’t have an answer.

He had to find out.

Patting his face, Yonny took a shaky breath. It was hot to the touch, but not in a feverish or height-of-warm-season way. His head felt like it was roasting, overburdened with blood that should have been taking nutrients to the rest of his body but instead congregated in his cheeks. As he looked over his face in the faint reflection of the door, his gaze drew to his soulmarks; without a doubt, they were his cheeks’ most eye-catching feature. Despite Yonny’s usual mixed feelings about those little campfires, looking at them now gave him a foreign twinge of hope.

The blaze in that boy’s eyes had burned into his memory, too, after all.

Goodness. Yonny needed to see him again.

Setting his palms against the thick door, Yonny let out a soft growl and ran his claws over its steel coating. Something told him he wouldn’t be able to find the boy after school in the throng of the rest of the students. As much as Yonny hated it, he knew his classmate would get away with what he’d done. The entitled brat was considered a “strong student” — that is to say, he had the money to raise his grades off the backs of others, and to buy out the staff’s benefit of the doubt. Meanwhile, the kid who came to Yonny’s rescue didn’t look like he shared that privilege, so any disciplinary action would likely be levied on him.

Rage at the injustice boiled under Yonny’s skin. This wasn’t right. That boy shouldn’t be punished for his selfless act, even if it would probably just be detention. Yonny’s morning math class was next to the counselor’s office; listening to conversations that could be heard through the thin walls, he noticed that suspension and expulsion were threatened rather than enforced. (He wondered if it was out of pride; at assemblies, the principal sure loved to talk about their school’s low rates for those.) Obviously, detention was the preferable option between those three punishments, but it still sucked. It wasn’t fair that it was all but guaranteed that the boy from the tree would be dragged there after school.

…

Wait a moment.

Yonny’s eyes lit up. That’s it!

He rolled up his left sleeve and checked his watch. Science class is in ten minutes. A smirk spread across Yonny’s face and he chuckled, low and breathy and pleased. Good. I can still meet him properly if I get creative about it.

And, as much as his teachers appreciated the diligence he demonstrated in his schoolwork, no one ever liked it when Yonny got creative.

Chapter Text

Exercising more quiet caution than ever, Yonny peeked through the window of the door to his science classroom. He couldn’t have prayed for a better setup: Mr. Foxx, his teacher, was alone in the room and taking his daily siesta in his chair, face in his arms and back hunched as he snored against his desk.

On a normal day, Yonny wouldn’t have bothered verifying. He would have simply sauntered in, composed and calm, ready to tend to his homework assignments in peace; after all, Mr. Foxx encouraged his students to come in during lunch break for that purpose. It was a coin toss whether there would be another student or two in the room, but it appeared luck was on Yonny’s side today. Additionally, Mr. Foxx most often woke up from the bell — not from the sounds of the door snapping open or closed, nor from Yonny setting his backpack and book on his desk by the connected storage room. Ergo, under normal circumstances, Yonny wouldn’t worry about causing a scene. Even on the rare occasions Mr. Foxx woke up, he never got upset about it.

This, however, was not just any given day. Ensuring Mr. Foxx stayed asleep was crucial, and access to the aforementioned storage room was necessary.

Good thing no one else was around.

I should ensure it stays that way. Once Yonny slipped inside and guided the door to close with a near-inaudible click, he began rooting through his ponytail. Long ago, he made the observation that each classroom door had a double cylinder deadbolt — keyholes on either side of the handle, ideal for a windowed door in case a trespasser breaks the glass to try opening it from the inside. Supposedly, three people possessed the keys: the classroom’s teacher, the principal, and the janitor. At least, that’s what Yonny surmised would be the most practical distribution; he couldn’t know for sure unless he wanted to snoop in a staff-only area, and that would take too much time today.

So, instead, he pulled out a bobby pin he long since scraped the rubber off of, bent it, and used it as a makeshift waverake. A few practiced seconds later, and the door locked with another soft click.

Yonny pulled the handle. It held fast. He smirked.

Peeerfect.

Following the high of his success, he snuck to the storage room door, checked the handle (it was, understandably, also locked), and more or less repeated the process. Flick, wiggle, pull, a bit of finesse aaand — done!

My parents might start monitoring my search history after this, considered Yonny as he entered the storage room and pulled the door quietly shut. The guidance counselor might inform them of my, eheheh, “surprise skillset” in her call. If he had time, Yonny could perhaps formulate a defense for his freedom to research and obtain new skills once his parents wrapped up their prerequisite yelling. However, Yonny doubted the chance would present itself.

After all, a different opportunity was open before him, and he had to take advantage of it while he had the time.

In this windowless room, rows upon rows of chemicals towered above and around Yonny. He smiled as he breathed in the cool, sterile smell of nitrile gloves and reinforced plastic. As far as the main schools of science were concerned, biology would always be his first love, but many of the processes of life function at the molecular level — therefore, Yonny had a great deal of appreciation for chemistry as well. He was notably good at it; this was the other class he was so far ahead in, cementing the routine whiplash of working on labs with eleven-year-olds followed by dealing with physical education for eight-year-olds. Yonny recognized that everything was stored as a precaution, intended for demonstrations by Mr. Foxx and for the rare experiments deemed safe enough for students to be assigned. Today was going to be one such day, so it wouldn’t look odd for Yonny to mix chemicals together at his desk.

Not until it was too late, anyway.

Which was exactly what Yonny had in mind.

He knew what reaction he wanted. Both components would be here — he was sure of it. One was an aqueous solution commonly used to demonstrate how quickly a pair of reagents could change color when mixed. The other came in crystal form, often stirred into a starch solution to change color, and then with an acid to suddenly make the solution clear again. Safe, fun little procedures. Chemicals obtained with innocent intentions.

Combining the two would yield precisely what Yonny felt would get himself in enough trouble to send him to detention while not putting his classmates in jeopardy. As long as the windows stayed open, at any rate.

And, sure enough, those bottles were stationed on the shelves, exactly as Yonny hoped.

No gloves were needed; by leaving fingerprints at the scene, there would be just the right amount of incriminating evidence for a standard-issue biometric scan to pick up after the fact. Yonny wanted the staff to be certain that none of his classmates helped (despite his intentions, he wouldn’t dream of dragging them down with him). At the same time, to leave such marks painted a level of perceived innocence on the whole ordeal. He was only eight, after all. Surely a kid as young as him with such warmth and curiosity in his eyes would still need to learn standard childhood lessons, no matter how well he performed academically. It was all a part of growing up.

So, grinning to himself, he grabbed the components, made sure to put handprints on all of the shelves, and slipped them into his backpack.

However, the moment they were secured, he heard a faint jostling of the classroom door handle and a voice through the thin walls. “Mr. Foxx?” 

Yonny froze.

The jiggling continued. “Mr. Foxx? Hello? Your door’s locked.”

Yonny recognized the voice as a classmate: one of the girls who would trail in right before the bell and sit in the back row to whisper tween gossip to her friends. Tugging his sleeve up and checking his watch, Yonny confirmed that there were still seven minutes before the bell rang. Why is she here so early? He ran a hand through his hair, tugging at his ponytail as he bit his lip. No, no, no! I can’t get caught leaving the storage room!

There was a distant knock. Yonny heard a faint, drawn-out groan.

Then silence.

Yonny swallowed. He had to unlock the classroom door, and he had to do it without getting caught. It would be suspicious if it were locked while he and Mr. Foxx were the only ones there, especially given the teacher’s lunch study policy. Worse still, because the door to the storage room had no window, he couldn’t even check to see if his classmate really left. Attempting to swallow his panic, Yonny felt all too much like the protagonist in a horror game, all too aware that one wrong move would mean the end of the line.

Twenty seconds. Thirty. The world was still quiet, save for Mr. Foxx’s snoring. Yonny closed his eyes and placed his shaking hand on the knob. It’s a risk I have to take.

He opened the door and cracked an eye open.

His classmate was gone.

There was no time to lose. Closing the storage room, Yonny rushed to the classroom door, grabbed his bobby pin, and unlocked it with a mere fraction of the grace he possessed earlier. Then he rushed to sit at his spot, yanking his textbook from his backpack like it would catch fire if he didn’t.

“…Yeah, it totally won’t—.”

A click sounded behind Yonny. He looked over his shoulder, wide-eyed, as the same classmate opened the door without issue. Her face wrinkled like she sucked something sour as another student — one of her guy friends — suppressed a laugh.

“Oh, yeah. It’s stuck, all right.”

“What the hell?” With a huff, she turned her glare on Yonny with a mild, annoyed growl. “Hey, pipsqueak! How did you get in here?”

Yonny blinked. He took a slow breath and held it for a second, praying it would steady his voice enough to sound like he didn’t parkour to his seat.

“I… opened the door?”

His short statement must have passed the voice test. The girl appeared like she was about to implode from (reasonable) frustration, but at least she didn’t seem suspicious of him. Fortunately, her friend chuckled and patted her back, steering her away and changing the subject as he walked her to her spot.

Yonny let out another breath — one he didn’t know he was holding. That was too close.

It would be worth it, though. It had to be. Over the next few minutes, as Yonny cracked open his textbook and read it to further appear innocent, more students trickled into the room. None of them had any idea what Yonny was up to, nor what he had done. Mr. Foxx would wake up from the bell any moment, and as the anxiety in Yonny’s heart waned, it made space for a sense of victory.

Yonny would get in trouble, all right. He would get sent to detention. And, while it might have been easier to get punished for being caught stealing, this would be far more fun.

Ten minutes later, as the science experiment began and his fellow students turned on their hotplates, Yonny smirked as he opened his backpack to procure his contraband.

Let’s go out with a bang.

#

A few hours later, Dingo scowled his way into detention, stewing in fury and defeat.

In the guidance counselor’s office, he learned the hard way that it was trivial to get blood and fingerprints matched. Though the counselor initially seemed skeptical of Fancy Coat’s story, she did believe the results of a scan: the light blood at the blunt end of the stick was Tank Top’s, and the only fingerprints on the base were Dingo’s. That, plus Tank Top being brought to the nurse’s office for the bump on his head, made things look grim from the get-go.

Of course, Dingo tried to plead his case to the guidance counselor both before and after the scan. Unsurprisingly, Fancy Coat talked over him and denied everything to do with it being a justified defense for another student. The guy bent over backwards to twist the truth so hard, Dingo was surprised he wasn’t kissing his own butt by the end of it. Fancy Coat spun some crock about how Sweater Vest (he didn’t even have the decency to drop the guy’s name) only showed up after Dingo knocked Tank Top out.

“I’m sure my littlest classmate must be so rattled,” Fancy Coat had said in the most phony, syrupy voice imaginable, “having seen this degenerate holding a blood-covered stick over my best friend’s body!”

“It’s not even that bloody!” Dingo had protested. And he was right — he really only scraped the guy — but for some reason, no one cared.

Dingo had half a mind to eat the detention slip he was given, but last time he tried, he got two slips to make up for it. Not to mention it was too late, anyhow. He was here, head bowed and trudging up to the detention monitor, Miss Wulf, regretting ever being born. What was the point in living if he had to endure the torture of being forced to sit down and shut up for a whole grueling hour? Wow. Existing sucked.

“Assault on another student?” Miss Wulf huffed, eyes flicking over the slip. The old lady quirked a brow and sniffed in blatant disdain. “That’s quite the new low for you, young Mr. Thylacine. One would think the lesson that violence is wrong would have sunk in by the time you were four.”

Dingo let out a loud, pained growl. “Everyone keeps saying that, but I had a reason! I—.”

“Ah-cha-cha.” Miss Wulf cut Dingo off from his self-defense, waggling her finger. “No buts, young man. Except yours, in that seat, pronto.” She pointed at a spot by the window in the middle row of desks and gave Dingo a glare that could wither paint off a wall.

Swallowing his rage, Dingo grimaced and dragged himself towards his assigned seat. He passed by a few other kids on the way, all his age and none of whom he recognized; at a school this size, there were many classes for his age group. They were all looking at him with clear fear, however, having surely heard Miss Wulf announce what Dingo was “in for.”

Dingo’s face went red. Now more embarrassed than angry, he slumped in his chair, resting his head in his arms. So much for making a detention buddy, I guess. He heaved a heavy sigh. The movies lied to me.

He stayed like that for a few minutes, tuning out everything but his own doom-spiral of despairing thoughts. As such, he paid no mind to the sound of the door opening once more.

It was impossible, however, to not hear Miss Wulf let out a flustered squawk.

“Stealing school property, disregard for safety, and refusal to apologize for what, now??”

“Detonating a chemical I synthesized in class,” came a warm, familiar hum.

Dingo’s head shot up, his pulse racing at the voice. Is that…?

It was. Sure enough, right by the whiteboard stood the boy in the sweater vest… only the vest in question looked a lot more purple than it did two hours ago. His hands were clasped together as he elaborated with a cheery grin. “Seeing the mauve clouds Mr. Foxx teased for the end of the semester was worth it. Despite the concerns, I assure you that the gas and solids resulting from the explosion are non-toxic.” He shrugged, still smiling. “I regret nothing, ma’am.”

“Are you serious?” Miss Wulf sounded a second away from blowing her top. “Young Mr. Papillon, you should feel ashamed of yourself. You’re far too smart to expressly ignore lab safety protocols like this. And theft? What did your parents say when the counselor called them…?”

Her ramble dragged on, but Dingo was no longer listening. Propping up his binder like a shield, he peered over the top and stared at “young Mr. Papillon,” knowing it would be nice and easy to hide if he were caught. Papillon looked so calm and unphased by being chewed out in front of everyone. He didn’t flinch or wince at all; on the contrary, he had a tranquil, dreamlike smile on his face, like he was fully at peace with his punishment.

Dingo, feeling an odd mix of envy and admiration, gulped. I wish I was that calm under pressure, the jealous part of him sighed. But at the same time, as Dingo leaned upwards, struggling to get a better look at the smooth operator before him, he stole a moment to pay internal respects to the dignity with which Papillon held himself. That’s so cool of him.

“Now go to your seat!” Miss Wulf said, having apparently finished her huffing and puffing.

Papillon hummed. “Yes, ma’am.”

Dingo ducked before he could get caught spying. Shoot. I need to lay low. Those thoughts came through, unfiltered, and Dingo felt dumb as soon as he realized it. Wait, why am I so nervous? He’s just a person. It’s not like he bites, right?

At that question, Dingo pictured Papillon with sharp, glinting fangs. It only added to his… no, Dingo couldn’t call it “prettiness;” Papillon was still a guy.

Also, huh? Where’d that thought come from??

Well, the answer would have to wait. While Dingo’s brain was otherwise occupied with his inner flailing, he whipped out some math homework so he could at least attempt to blend in. Pretend to look studious and all that. Play it cool, play it cool….

Then the sound of a chair’s feet creaking, nice and loud, nice and close, made Dingo’s right ear swivel. Startled, he snapped his head in that direction.

Papillon was staring directly at him. He sat in the same row with only one empty desk in between.

They locked eyes.

A tense, breathless moment passed. Heat crept into Dingo’s cheeks. Papillon still had a grin on his face, but it had taken on a few new qualities. There was an edge of mysteriousness to it that Dingo couldn’t put his finger on, and yet it was also bright like Ohri’s moons on a clear night. Papillon’s starry eyes sparkled both above and behind his glasses, and Dingo didn’t miss the secret wave the other boy sent him under his seat.

…Oh, no. Papillon was expecting a response. C’mon, Dingo! Do something!

He raised his own hand from his lap so hard, he hit it on the underside of his desk. It hurt, and Papillon cringed at the sound, but Dingo — knowing he was safe behind his binder — lifted his hand next to his face and waved back. The gesture was shaky and more tentative than Papillon’s (as Dingo couldn’t help feeling rather timid in front of someone so cool), but Dingo felt better just doing it. In fact, he couldn’t help but smile back: quirked and slanted and a little bit toothy, it gave an air of bashfulness he wasn’t quite aware of.

Before Dingo had time to process the way Papillon lit up even more, his binder was smacked down with a loud thump. “Face where I can see you!” barked Miss Wulf, now right in front of them, and Dingo squeaked and pulled back. Wasting no time, she then skulked towards Papillon and whacked a ruler against his desk. “And you — start your homework!” Papillon jolted too, the poor guy, and quickly opened his space-themed backpack, pulling out a green journal and the same book he was reading when those bullies showed up.

Resigned, Dingo grabbed his math textbook, stared at his worksheet, and smothered a groan. Great. Just peachy. He didn’t blame Papillon, of course, but his mere presence was going to be so distracting. Dingo was practically clipping through his seat, dying to talk to him. Papillon just… seemed awesome. And nice. And fun, if he was willing to blow up a lab!

And yet Dingo was expected to sit back, stick a sock in it, and do math?

There’s no justice in this world.

#

For six entire minutes, Dingo tried (and failed) to focus. His fractions sheet stared back at him, the colorful font asking him to simplify each one as much as he could. Dingo wanted to chew his own foot off. These numbers can jump right off a cliff, he thought, scowling at a problem that had him stumped. He was mad, yes, but mostly embarrassed — Dingo felt like he should have known this already, but math was just the worst.

Then, he heard the quiet sound of a throat being cleared to his right.

Dingo’s ears perked. He looked up — Miss Wulf wasn’t watching, too engrossed in her fancy Ohreader tablet to pay any mind — and then to the side.

Papillon was eyeing him, expression serious. His gaze flicked to Dingo’s worksheet, then back to Dingo’s face. Then, with quiet care, Papillon smacked the back of his pen against his open book. Tap. He waited a moment before almost repeating this process without any changes. However, instead of smacking his pen once, he smacked it twice. Tap, tap.

Again. Tap. Tap, tap. Papillon’s ears flattened.

Dingo was watching him so closely, it took him a second to realize that Papillon wanted him to follow his gaze. With a start, Dingo turned and reviewed the problem he was stuck on: twenty-three over forty-six.

Tap. Tap, tap. One, one-two….

Dingo gasped. Oh!

He scribbled 1 / 2 next to the equals sign, beaming in triumph. Warmth bloomed in his chest, free and joyous. Then, looking back to Papillon, Dingo gave him a big thumbs up.

“Thanks,” he mouthed, silent.

Papillon smiled back, expression overjoyed and… soft, or something? “No problem,” he mouthed back.

“Eyes forward!” snapped Miss Wulf.

Dingo straightened up on instinct, and to his right, he heard Papillon’s chair squeak in turn.

#

Scribble, scribble, scribble, scribble, scribble.

Dingo couldn’t help but watch as Papillon wrote more words down in a minute than Dingo could probably manage in ten. It looked like Papillon was doing a journal assignment on whatever he was reading. Dingo had those too on occasion, but nothing that required such extensive responses. Usually a short-answer question only needed a few sentences max. Maybe it was the split in reading level, but Papillon was doing paragraphs.

So it shouldn’t have surprised Dingo to see Papillon grimace and shake his right hand after a while, frowning at it like it was betraying him.

Ah. Dingo recognized what was happening right away. He furrowed his brows and flattened his ears. Poor guy. Carpal tunnel blows, but… wait. That’s not a helpful way to stretch.

Well, then! Papillon did Dingo a favor with that fraction. The least he could do was offer a little help in return.

Understanding it would look weirder if he tried to be quiet, Dingo decided his discreet “look-here” sound should be a cough. Sure enough, though Miss Wulf peeked up to glare at him, her eyes slipped back down after a second, and Dingo could turn to safely glance at Papillon. Papillon’s head tilted, and he met Dingo’s gaze with a quirk of his ears.

For some reason, right after watching that little action, Dingo’s heart flipped. He wouldn’t dwell on it; time was of the essence. Gulping, he lifted both hands and wiggled his fingers.

Dingo’s eyes darted from Papillon’s face, his hands, and back. Follow my lead, the gesture said. Then Dingo rotated his wrist for a minute: first up-to-down, then side-to-side. With a thoughtful nod, Papillon caught on right away, mimicking the motions, wide-eyed and curious. Dingo nodded and smiled, then moved on to the next sets of stretches.

Opening his hands out wide, then relaxing his fingers. Repeat. Bending his thumb back and holding it. Repeat. Prayer hands, pulled low and held just beneath the chest. Extending the arm, turning the wrist down, then bending it farther with the other hand. Repeat, but with the wrist up now. As Papillon followed along, Dingo grinned and nodded encouragingly. Who knew watching Dad flex his hands while whinging about his day job would pay off?

“And what are you doing?”

“Eek!”

Dingo jumped in his seat, head lashing in the direction of Miss Wulf. She loomed above his desk, nose crinkled and arms folded in disapproval. With no time to think, Dingo went with the old faithful approach: he put on the biggest, shiniest, guiltiest eyes he could. Like a space-pup, he bowed his head, lowered his ears, and peered at her with a whine. It was of utmost importance he looked as pouty and pathetic as possible — pride would have to wait.

“Oh… sorry, Miss Wulf. I was just stretching. My hand hurts from holding my pencil so hard.” He picked it up and pretended to wince, gripping it in his fist. “See? It’s not working as well as it should.” Dingo demonstrated by pushing hard on the dull tip, writing the next simplified fraction with unnecessary pressure.

Miss Wulf sighed and opened her palm. “Let me see that for a second.”

Worry creased Dingo’s brow as he obeyed, wondering if she saw through him. Instead, the old lady bowed to the front of the class, sharpened the tip, and returned. She put the pencil back in his hand with a small huff. “There. That should help. Having a sharp pencil is key for ease of writing, so if you need to get it sharpened again, raise your hand and ask. You should also hold it like so….”

While Miss Wulf was distracted, trying to show proper pencil etiquette by adjusting Dingo’s fingers around it, he took a glance at Papillon. The other boy had just put down his own pen again, wiggling his fingers with a grateful grin. By chance, their eyes met, and this time it was Papillon’s turn to mouth a silent “thank you.”

If Miss Wulf weren’t right there in front of him, Dingo would’ve mouthed, “glad to help.” But she was, so instead, he flashed Papillon a quick smile and a wink.

Dingo looked back at Miss Wulf just in time to miss Papillon’s cheeks go pink.

#

Detention had to be worse than capital punishment. There were fifteen whole minutes left to suffer and Dingo was sooo booored.

He gave up pretending to care about homework a while ago; as soon as he finished his math worksheet and saw how long his history assignment looked, he decided it just wasn’t worth it anymore. Dingo had his head in his hands, scanning the room for any point of interest to stare at that wouldn’t get him in trouble. Alas, whoever decorated was a cruel person: dull posters, little artwork, no color. Even the view from the window faced nasty concrete and asphalt. Dingo would say the place was designed specifically to torture him with his own pent-up energy and desire for freedom, but it was obvious that the beige, soundless room wasn’t doing his peers any favors, either. They were all falling asleep, playing with their erasers, counting cracks on the ceiling, and the like.

Even Papillon didn’t seem all that interested in his journal now.

Of course Dingo would glance his way; he knew he’d be scolded if Miss Wulf caught him staring, but Papillon was by far the most fascinating guy here. However, after Dingo helped him stretch out his hand, Papillon more or less stopped writing. Now whenever Dingo looked his way, he’d catch Papillon watching him. Once they made eye-contact, Papillon would startle and hide his face in his book, then peek over the pages like a fearful prey animal keeping tabs on a nearby predator.

It happened like that a few times, and each one left Dingo a little more confused. The nerves wriggling in his gut grew worse the longer he thought about it. What’s his deal? Did I do something wrong? It’s not like Dingo was in a flurry of activity or anything, given they were still stuck in detention. He strained to think of what he might have done to cause Papillon to act so funny, but try as he might, Dingo drew a blank.

Sure enough, the next time Dingo looked in Papillon’s direction, Papillon did it again — only this time, his big reading book slipped from his hands. Panic flashed in his eyes and, in a split second, he barely caught it before ducking his face behind it again.

…The book was upside-down.

If Miss Wulf caught Papillon like that, she’d be on him in a second and call him out in front of everyone. He didn’t look all that composed anymore, so maybe he’d be more susceptible to being shamed. Which, obviously, he didn’t deserve.

Dingo wouldn’t let that happen if he had anything to say about it.

Thankfully, the pattern was clear by now. Once Papillon’s eyes shone over the top of the book, Dingo met his gaze and held up a hand as if to say hold on. He flicked his eyes down to the book’s cover and back up, then spun a circle in the air with his pointer finger. Papillon blinked, looked down, and scrambled to turn the book upright, causing it to briefly thump against his journal.

Dingo snapped his head towards the window at the sound, folding his hands on his desk in an effort to appear innocent.

He gave it a minute — Miss Wulf no doubt gave Papillon a glare — before he turned back. Papillon had set his book down and was pinching the bridge of his nose, glasses riding up to his forehead as his ears drooped. He looked redder than the rocks making up the plateaus. Dingo’s face fell. It didn’t take a genius to see that, despite Dingo’s best efforts, Papillon became self-conscious anyway — maybe even more so than if Dingo didn’t do anything.

Wait… self-conscious?

The gears in Dingo’s brain turned. Is that what Papillon was? It occurred to Dingo right then that maybe Papillon was acting funny because he was feeling shy and anxious around him. Which was a better explanation than nothing, but… huh? Why Dingo? What did he do? Did Papillon not think he was cool enough for him? If that was true, then it was stupid, because reality was clearly the other way around: it was Dingo who had to be worried about not being cool enough for Papillon.

If that’s even his name. He realized he’d been calling this guy ‘Papillon’ in his head this whole detention because of Miss Wulf, since she always liked calling kids ‘young Mr. X’ or ‘young Miss Y’ — only she’d say their last name instead. If Dingo was going to talk to Papillon after class (which he desperately wanted to, even though the mere idea made his stomach swirl), then it would make sense to call him by his first name. Asking for it would show him I’m interested, right?

Maybe. I hope so. Dingo briefly lamented his lack of friends and the experience they would have offered. Nonetheless, he puffed his chest, feeling utterly determined. Only one way to find out!

The solution was right in front of him: his history worksheet. Grabbing his pencil, Dingo circled the large Name indicator at the top right, then added a squiggle to turn the colon into a question mark. He then held it up, curving the page so that the right side was in plain view for Papillon, and looked the other boy’s way with a curious smile.

Dingo saw Papillon’s expression melt from concern to intrigue. Closing his book, Papillon’s face lit up as he tapped the back of his pen, light and quiet, towards the base of the book’s spine. A white sticker covered by clear tape had a name written on it in deep black ink: Yonny P.

Ooh. Dingo’s eyes sparkled. He nodded, giving Yonny a thumbs up and an eager grin, before holding up a finger as if to say, wait a sec. Diving into his backpack, Dingo whipped out a pack of crayons and pulled out the warm-color ones. Once he flipped his worksheet over to the blank back, Dingo began writing with a level of speed and enthusiasm he didn’t know he had in vivid red, orange, and yellow. He knew exactly what he wanted to say, and used the different colors to help it pop in semi-3D text on a comic-book-style shout bubble. As he tried to make it even cooler by adding flames around it, he could feel Yonny’s eyes drilling into him. Was he trying to look over his shoulder?

Well, he wouldn’t have to wait long!

With a small thwap as Dingo stretched out the paper, he showed off his quick but colorful introduction, puffing his chest and smiling with pride:

Hiya, Yonny! I’m Dingo!

At that, Yonny gasped and giggled. He looked just about giddy, like he finally got the thing he always wanted for his birthday, and Dingo couldn’t blame him — he felt giddy, too. The flutters in his gut migrated to his chest and he beamed harder, also giggling, ears wiggling, foreign warmth turning his cheeks a soft pink. It hit him right then, in a rush of immense joy, that this was the first time he was excited to meet someone who was actually excited back. Was this even real? He hoped it was! Finally, someone who might want to play with him! Someone who might want to hang out! Someone who—!

“Hey!” Miss Wulf snapped. “Don’t distract students who are trying to work!”

Dingo yelped. Since when could Miss Wulf teleport?? He recoiled so fast, he fell out of his chair and landed, rump-first, on the thin, bristly carpet. Distantly, he heard Yonny also let out a meep of surprise, but Dingo didn’t have time to absorb it as Miss Wulf loomed over him and pointed towards the farthest corner of the room.

“Over there!”

Her tone was sharp enough to startle Dingo out of his wits. “Y-yes, ma’am,” he stammered, hurrying to his feet and grabbing everything he could. When his stubborn crayons wouldn’t fit in their box, he stuck them in his mouth as he dragged his history book, worksheet, and backpack over to a desk in the boonies.

“And you! Face towards the front of the class!” Miss Wulf added to Yonny. Dingo peered over his shoulder just in time to catch Yonny’s expression before he jolted and obeyed: brows furrowed, hand clapped over his mouth, looking speechless and a bit guilty.

Dingo sat down. There was a tense silence as the dust settled and Miss Wulf returned to her seat.

Once it had, though, it didn’t take long for Dingo to catch Yonny looking his way again, the boy’s face scrunched and hard to read. The context clues were enough, and Dingo couldn’t blame Yonny for feeling bad. But they both made noise, so it wasn’t all his fault — Dingo refused to let Yonny feel that way. In an effort to cheer him up, Dingo grinned and waved, real and warm and kind, hoping it would be enough to clear Yonny’s mind.

And it felt so miraculous, so wonderful beyond words, when Yonny let out an easy sigh, gave Dingo a relieved smile, and waved back.

#

Finally detention ended. As Miss Wulf ushered the kids out like she couldn’t wait to get rid of them all, Dingo kept an eye open while Yonny was nudged into the hall. Since Dingo was in the last row (and struggled to fit all his schoolwork into his overstuffed backpack), he ended up stumbling out a minute or two after the rest. Miss Wulf was right behind him, practically pushing him out of the room with her hand at his back.

“And stay out of trouble, young man,” she said once Dingo was through the door. He tuned her out, though, as he had a much more important mission in mind.

He looked to the right. The left.

No one else was in the corridor. All at once, Dingo’s eager grin slipped off his face. 

Where’s Yonny?

Miss Wulf finished locking the detention room door, turned down the hall, and walked out of sight. The corridor was so quiet, all Dingo could hear was Miss Wulf’s fading footsteps and the sound of his own, shaky breathing.

His ears drooped. I didn’t take that long, did I?

Maybe he did. But, honestly, what did he even expect? Dingo’s heart fell like a heavy brick in his gut; it was a feeling he was all too familiar with. It made sense that Yonny would rather go home now that he was free than stay behind for some nobody. Dingo should have been used to this by now — everyone else he tried to befriend left, too — but for some reason, this time it hurt worst of all. Perhaps because, for a second there, he actually thought he had a chance.

Crushed by the weight of his own disappointment, Dingo wilted, sighed, and turned to trudge away.

“Going somewhere?”

Two words. It took two words for Dingo to catapult into the air with a startled squeak. He could be embarrassed about that later; spinning on his gym shoes, Dingo came face-to-face with Yonny, whose smile bordered right on the edge of nervous and amused, and who stood directly behind him.

Literally. Directly behind him. So close, Dingo could swear he felt Yonny’s body heat.

Dingo’s face went red.

Reflexive, he pulled back a ways, clutching at his chest with his claws as he recovered from the shock. “Well, hi to you, too!” he wheezed. His words were surprised, of course, but right away he worried if they came off as sarcastic; it often felt like everyone would interpret him that way, even though he thought of himself as rather direct. Dingo winced and stuttered, backpedaling just in case. “I mean, hi. Um. Hey?”

Fortunately, Yonny either didn’t read Dingo’s words as sarcastic or he knew what Dingo was trying to do. Instead, he hummed, holding up a hand to half-cover a quiet, entertained grin. “What are you greeting me for? We’ve been communicating all detention, haven’t we?”

Well, yeah, but not out loud! Dingo thought, ears flicking.

Something about his wide-eyed expression must have given Yonny pause, because right after, he faltered. “Ah. If my voice startled you, I apologize. I’ve been told it can be… off-putting.”

At that, Yonny looked aside, and Dingo noticed a subtle crease to the other boy’s smile. Something panged in Dingo’s gut; he got the instant sense that Yonny’s grin was no longer genuine — and that just wouldn’t do.

“Huh? What moron told you that?” Dingo blurted. He always had a habit of running his mouth, but right now, his thoughts came out quicker and even less filtered than usual. “I like your voice. It’s nice. Soothing. Musical, even.” With a huff, Dingo crossed his arms and stuck up his nose. “Congrats to whoever said that; they’re the first person to ever have a wrong opinion. Good grief! I should give them a piece of my mind. Maybe that’ll teach them to say stuff that makes no sense because it’s stupid and fake and a lie and….”

Dingo trailed off, suddenly recalling where he was and who he was with. Wait. Fidgeting, he looked at Yonny and took in his face. Yonny’s eyes were wide behind his glasses, his brows were raised, and there was an intense redness to his cheeks that wasn’t there before.

Oh, no. Dingo could have cringed himself six feet under. Did I embarrass him again? What’s wrong with me today??

“Anyway!” In an effort to look chill and calm and totally in control of himself, Dingo tried to do a cool-guy lean against the nearest wall, only to overestimate how close it was. He didn’t fall or anything, but the lean ended up so exaggerated, there was no way he didn’t look ridiculous. Dingo’s face warmed, but he had no choice but to commit to it now. “You just spooked me ‘cause your voice was louder than the hall and I didn’t see you coming. That’s it. Not like I was scared or anything! Far from it! But… you know.” Dingo puffed his chest, hoping that looking the tiniest bit cooler would somehow save him from his own prattle. “Even keen outdoorsboys sometimes get their senses fooled.”

That last sentence seemed to capture Yonny’s attention. He blinked and adjusted his glasses, stroking his chin, a thoughtful smile curling on his face. “Outdoorsboy, you say?”

From anyone else Dingo had ever met, such a question would be asked with confusion at best or haughty judgment at worst; he lived in such an urban place that outdoorsmanship was considered an unusual interest, thus making Dingo a weirdo in the eyes of quite a few classmates. From Yonny, though? Wow. It was amazing how that simple question improved Dingo’s mood tenfold. All because, despite Dingo’s endless string of social errors, Yonny sounded legit intrigued.

Dingo perked right up, pulling out of his (not so) cool-guy lean and pumping his fists in the air. “Yeah! I mean, I haven’t been on trails lately because of all the seasonal rains, plus Mum’s been busy and hasn’t been able to take me, but it’s so nice! There’s nothing quite like the feeling of fresh air in your lungs and nature all around you. Have you been to Ruffman’s Ridge? It’s full of rare species and the rocks are banded in all shades of red and on a clear night you can see the whole galaxy and….”

Yonny hummed again, and it came from… the side? Dingo must have been caught up in the thrill of indulging in rambles about his interests for once; only now did he notice Yonny circling him, hands behind his back, head tilted and face curious. All of a sudden, Dingo felt acutely aware of the other boy’s gaze. For some reason, it made Dingo feel like he was being studied. Yonny’s expression carried a soft, musing quality that contrasted with equal amounts of open, intense interest.

It was… a lot.

Dingo hugged himself, feeling a bit self-conscious. “ …Uh. What are you doing?”

“Hmm? Oh, pardon!” Yonny straightened up, offering Dingo a little smile. “I hope you don’t mind; I just wanted to get a better look at the boy who stopped someone much larger than us from hitting me. You did save my skin out there, after all.” Then, breathy and warm and low in his chest, Yonny put his hand to his mouth and chuckled. “Eheheheh!”

Part of Dingo didn’t totally believe that was all Yonny was up to; he looked like he’d been thinking pretty hard about something, but then again, Dingo barely knew the guy, so who was he to judge? Another part of Dingo reeled from that chuckle, because oh stars, it made him feel fuzzy. There was something haunting about it, not like a restless ghost but more like a memory, undefined and unreadable but unexpectedly soft. Dingo might have shivered from the sound, but the part of him most present in the moment was always the first to react. Taking in Yonny’s words, he puffed up his chest with simultaneous surprise and pride. He could itch out the mental stuff later; when someone you admire says they want to admire you, then you let them, of course!

“Oh. Well, then!” Dingo struck a courageous pose, flexing his right arm and holding his head high. “Go on.”

Yonny’s eyes glittered and he beamed, radiating a contagious excitement. “Why, thank you, Dingo,” he said, melodic and pleased. It was the first time Dingo heard his name come out of Yonny’s mouth; maybe it was just how nice it sounded in Yonny’s voice, maybe it was how enthusiastic he looked, or maybe it was some combination of the two, but Dingo once again became overwhelmed with giddiness. He’d never felt this way before — such a surge of joy at the attention of another person was fully and utterly unknown to him. Not that Dingo was complaining; if anything, the sensation was so nice, he had to at least try to share that energy back!

“No prob, Yonny!” he chirped, tilting his head to try and watch as the other boy circled him again. “That’s how you say it, right? Like yawn and knee?”

“Eheheheh!” It almost looked like Yonny startled himself with his own chuckle, because he covered his mouth right after, looking aside with a sheepish grin. “Ah — I suppose? There’s no need to overemphasize the syllables, though.”

Dingo shrugged, undeterred. “Fair enough. Not sure if I can help it, though, with my accent and all.” Halfway through his sentence, he already came up with a compromise, which he offered with a prompt snap of his fingers. “Hey, I know! Can I call you Yon for short?”

At that, Yonny seemed to pause. Drawing back in front of Dingo, his face was much more muted than before. The change was immediate and jarring.

Dingo flinched at the whiplash. “Oh.” I was too much again. “Sorry. I won’t—.”

“No!” Yonny waved his hands, shouting loud enough to echo in the empty hall. Lowering his voice, he pulled forward, swaying on his feet and fidgeting with his hands. “No, you can call me Yon. I like it!”

Dingo blinked. The tension left his spine. “You do?” He couldn’t hide the hope behind his words if he tried.

“Absolutely!” Yonny smiled again, letting out a relieved breath. “Apologies; I didn’t mean to worry you. It’s just… I’m not used to receiving nicknames that are… quite so nice.”

Dingo’s back bristled at the implication. “Wh—?”

“By the way, you never answered my first question.” Yonny didn’t derail Dingo’s train of thought, though Dingo got the feeling he was trying to. “Going somewhere? As in… are your parents coming to pick you up?”

Dingo let everything sink in for a second before answering. “Nah.” Flattening his ears, he huffed and crossed his arms. “They’re making me walk home as punishment, I guess. Home’s not far, but also… it’s like you put it for Miss Wulf, you know?” He looked Yonny in the eye, serious and sincere. “I regret nothing. The grownups can throw me in detention all they want, but next time anyone gives you grief — verbal or physical or whatever — I’ll bring a bigger stick. All right?”

There was a long pause. Yonny brushed a curl of hair behind his lowered ear, eyes flicking over Dingo’s face. Once again, Dingo got the distinct sense that he was being studied, but he held fast. If Yonny was looking for some sign of untruth or exaggeration, he wouldn’t find it here. Dingo stood, resolute, stoic and determined.

Yonny’s shoulders relaxed. “Thank you….” His voice came out with a wavering quality, but before Dingo could comment or think about it, Yonny cleared his throat and continued to speak like normal. “I ask because my parents had the same idea. You don’t live far?”

Dingo perked up. “Yeah, I’m like a five minute walk away. Why?”

A gleaming smile spread on Yonny’s face. “Me too! Can I show you where my neighborhood is?” He stretched out his hand to take Dingo’s and, without hesitation, Dingo reached back.

“Sure!”

Their hands met.

Dingo had held others’ hands before: those of his parents, those of other relatives, and those of a few teachers. It was mostly when he was younger, but Dingo nonetheless had the experience to say that, in many ways, this blew the rest out of the water. Yonny’s palm was hot and his grip was strong, with callouses only on the tips of his comparatively cold fingers. The softness of his skin took Dingo aback, but only for a second as a new feeling washed over him — warm and flowing and all-encompassing, it felt like sinking into a toasty bath after a long day. Any apprehension, concerns that he and Yonny weren’t going to hit it off the way he hoped, melted out of Dingo’s bones and through the soles of his shoes. Despite the relaxing sensation, it didn’t dampen his enthusiasm; on the contrary, it sharpened into focus. With all tension gone, Dingo was merged with this moment.

He hopped with a chirp in an involuntary spasm of joy — what locals called a “popcorn.” It was said that it’s the purest showcase of Ohrian exhilaration: some animal instinct to express cheer and excitement from a time before words. Maybe Dingo could have found it in himself to be embarrassed (supposedly, cool guys never popcorned), but why would he when Yonny did it, too? Yonny leapt in an erratic wiggle as his chirp rang loud and bright — brighter than the happiness that lit his eyes like fireworks. It lasted less than a second, but Dingo knew he wouldn’t forget how unbridled and pretty Yonny looked right then.

He had to be Yonny’s friend.

“Let me walk you home!” Dingo said, unable to suppress a broad, goofy grin. He pulled up to Yonny’s side so that they could walk together as eager, energetic equals.

And Yonny, laughing and leading the way, looked over at Dingo with an affectionate smile that made Dingo’s whole world feel light. “I thought you’d never ask!”

Chapter Text

The rest of that month was the best in Yonny’s life so far.

He was still disciplined at home, of course; his parents weren’t so lenient as to forget. For a few weeks, Yonny’s chores doubled. Privileges for dessert, use of the family tablet, and access to the home library were revoked. The frame of an 8 to 9 o’clock bedtime devolved into a 7:30 mandate. By design, none of these punishments were pleasant, but they were manageable. A trifle, even.

And Yonny would endure them all over again if it meant that he and Dingo would still have met.

He reflected on this on a Friday night as he gazed at Ohri’s moons from the comfort of his bedside window: how Dingo’s presence brought whole new dimension into his existence. From perspective to personality, he held a heartfelt challenge to everything Yonny thought he knew about navigating the game of life. Whereas Yonny often sank into overthinking — dissecting the events of the past to determine a probable future, or simply getting lost in his head to the point where time no longer mattered — Dingo embodied the spirit of the now. Vigilant and daring, he followed his gut and lived in the moment. Though this proved to result in hasty decisions during the lunch breaks they shared, it just as often meant Dingo could take advantage of the practical: he could assess, then act. Perhaps more importantly, he would also enjoy the ephemeral. Things which would have otherwise passed Yonny by.

And Dingo would share them as if he’d waited his whole life for the chance.

Clouds taking the satisfying shapes of everyday objects and creatures. Chrysalises ready to rupture and release bugs made radiant by metamorphosis. Buds that would only bloom in shade as the sun relinquished its rays from the soil bed in which their flowers slept.

These were examples just from their first week together, as the gloom parted and skies grew bright and the world warmed with the seasons’ change. And every time Dingo ran to Yonny’s side and tugged his sleeve and said c’mon, Yon, Yonny felt that he, too, was alive in ways he had never known. That the dullness of daily existence, once dismissed by Yonny as he indulged in endless books, was a matter of false perspective. That marvels existed outside of labs, history, and imagination. That the world was, in fact, beautiful.

As was Dingo’s perception. Blessed with endearing frankness, he addressed most affairs with straightforward honesty courtesy of his ability to pierce to the core of any matter. At least, any matter he understood (which was, admittedly, a mixed bag). Sometimes Dingo could be quite oblivious to what Yonny thought was obvious, but once given the appropriate details, Dingo would course-correct without hesitation (if also a sheepish pout). But then there were times when Yonny felt like Dingo could discern the world better than any x-ray — particularly when it came to Yonny himself.

As Yonny drummed his fingers on his windowsill, staring up at the bright blurry smears of the twin moons and a handful of stars, he wondered if he should have been unnerved by that. After all, Yonny considered himself a private person. Yet, somehow, he wasn’t disturbed. Quite the contrary.

One particular moment, three weeks later, still made Yonny reel in dazed delight — it surged back to him, a recent memory but one he was certain would be a favorite.

#

It was the day after they met. Early in the morning, Yonny stood beside the school’s front steps as he waited for Dingo, smothering a yawn while taking slow, calming breaths. The chill morning air filled his lungs and sprouted goosebumps on his skin under his long sleeves; Yonny was devoid of the jacket he’d forgotten and unable to wear his favorite (least itchy) sweater vest while it was still in the wash. He was uncomfortable, to be sure, but not to a concerning degree. At least he wasn’t shivering. Besides, if Yonny’s social calculations were correct, this would be a mere temporary inconvenience.

He wanted to walk inside with Dingo — at least up to the point where they had to split off into the school’s separate wings. Without a doubt, the temperature would be agreeable indoors. Better still, they would be together, which was the true mark of victory.

Playing with his exposed hands, Yonny fidgeted and swayed back and forth on his feet; his cheeks, already hot to buffer his face from the icy air, warmed further. Despite only standing around for a few minutes, he discreetly worried at his mouth by teething on his inner lip with his immature fangs, wondering if perhaps he’d been wrong in his assessment of yesterday. Yonny had been so sure that Dingo would want to hang out again after they laughed and talked all the way to Yonny’s neighborhood — Dingo even said he’d “see ya tomorrow!” — but perhaps Dingo hadn’t meant first thing in the morning. Perhaps he didn’t want to see Yonny until recess, or even after classes let out. Could Yonny have been clingy for desiring to see Dingo again so soon?

Yonny grimaced. Worst case scenarios fogged his mind, more oppressive and colder than any weather. Maybe this is a mistake. I should just….

“Yon? Hey, Yon, there you are!”

Dingo’s voice pierced through the crowd of students. As Yonny jumped where he stood, witnessing Dingo weave his way through the nameless throng with brilliant eyes and a toothy grin, Yonny felt a rush of relief wash over him. He clutched at his chest and let out a sigh, all thoughts of doom and gloom exhaled into the air as mist. Though he didn’t have Dingo’s projecting voice, Yonny put as much diaphragm as he could into his greeting while he stood on his tiptoes and waved. “Ah — Dingo! Good morning!”

Only a moment more, and Dingo stopped and stood right in front of Yonny. “How’re you doing?” he panted, smile bright and goofy, pushing his own wild hair out of his face.

Yonny giggled at Dingo’s apparent enthusiasm. Better now that you’re here, he opened his mouth to say, but the words had no chance to emerge.

“Oh, cripes, you must be freezing.” Before Yonny could speak, Dingo shrugged off his oversized, unzipped jacket and tossed it over Yonny’s shoulders like a cape. “Don’t catch a cold on me, now!” Dingo’s boisterous voice rang clear and joyous in Yonny’s ears, and all at once, Yonny felt his brain — already sluggish from how early it was — stutter.

As the secondhand warmth seeped from his upper back all the way down to his thighs, Yonny stammered, “W-wait a moment. I couldn’t possibly—.”

“Nuh-uh!” Dingo tapped Yonny’s nose with a gentle index finger; Yonny meeped and went cross-eyed. Withdrawing, Dingo crossed his arms and kept speaking. “Mum says the day’s not gonna heat up much. I run around during recess and that keeps me plenty warm, so I’m willing to bet you need it more than I do.”

“I…” Yonny trailed off. The coat was so cozy, it was almost unreal. It hit Yonny right then that this was Dingo’s body heat being radiated back at him, and Yonny wondered if it was possible for his bones to melt despite the chill. “I’m not that cold,” he mumbled, an obvious token protest.

Dingo quirked a brow. Without hesitation, he took Yonny’s hand. Dingo’s palms were hot and calloused — almost overwhelmingly so against Yonny’s frigid fingers — but Yonny felt his shock and anxiety decay into a soft, grounded ease. It was a similar sort of feeling he had experienced the day before when they held hands for the first time — and, despite how it left him feeling quite relaxed, it paradoxically increased Yonny’s heart rate just as much.

Meanwhile, Dingo clicked his tongue. He looked Yonny in the eye, brows furrowed and expression firm. “You’re cold. I’m not. You can borrow my favorite jacket. That’s that.”

Right then, Yonny felt an odd urge twinge in his heart. While not one for physical intimacy, he’d never wanted to cuddle someone more than he did right at that moment. Fortunately, the flurry of Yonny’s nerves felt tempered by Dingo’s touch, so Yonny swallowed and found the wherewithal to refrain. Driving Dingo away by being too much, too soon, was the last thing Yonny wanted. “Thank you.”

Dingo’s ears perked up. “Of course!” Then, with a roguish grin, he tilted his head towards the school. “Now do you wanna walk to class with me, or what?”

Yonny couldn’t help but chuckle; Dingo had a way of washing out all worries. “Absolutely.”

Ten minutes later, Yonny received his first tardy for arriving late to his own class — having forgotten to part ways when in the happy whirl of Dingo’s company — and he couldn’t have possibly cared less.

#

There were more instances all lending further credence to the idea that Dingo could see right through him, but this one, even now, left Yonny feeling like a puddle. He hummed as he leaned against his windowsill, a dopey smile curling on his face as he pulled his blanket up and around him.

His comforter was pleasant, but not as soft and warm as that coat. It had felt like an indirect hug.

Yonny still had it, in fact, folded on his nightstand. Squinting in the jacket’s direction, he twitched and sighed. Dingo had refused to take it back for weeks; he said he wouldn’t until Yonny remembered to wear one of his own, or until the weather warmed up. Yonny really had to return it — it wasn’t like he didn’t have other sweaters or coats to wear — but he was hesitant to give it back. And this reluctance, plus his own repeated and anxious insistence that he’d “remember to next time,” left Yonny feeling… guilty.

Perhaps part of it was because of how direct Dingo was. While Yonny often felt forced to socialize like a game of chess — attempting to account for variables he had no way of knowing, recognizing that failure could result in dramatic miscommunication — with Dingo, everything was refreshingly simple. When Dingo said his piece about the coat, Yonny didn’t have to analyze whether or not Dingo would lord it over him if he kept it longer, nor try to gauge if it was an act of forced politeness that Yonny should have declined. No — Dingo meant what he said, and he said what he meant.

Until he tried to be cool, at any rate. But even then, Yonny could read right through him. Dingo was an open book.

It was one of the many things Yonny envied about him, though he also adored it. Dingo had big opinions, big enthusiasm, and a big heart. There was more to him than that, of course, but still. When boiled down to his essentials, what wasn’t there to like?

Over time, Yonny hoped to discover Dingo’s preferences and engage with his interests — all in an effort to connect, to try and make Dingo feel as happy as Yonny felt in his presence. Day by day, Yonny had picked up more little nuggets of information to stash into his repertoire for their interactions. Better yet, he could tell Dingo was returning that energy; he would ask excited questions, recall little details in the heat of a moment, keep a conversation’s momentum going because it was clear he didn’t want to leave. It seemed he truly valued Yonny’s company: a feeling so gloriously mutual.

To feel so understood was beautiful. To understand so readily was beautiful.

But Yonny would soon discover that, even when it feels like it, no system is ever perfect.

#

Morning came, and with it, Saturday. As Yonny scrambled over the hill to the park — one with a wide field and decent play structures, situated roughly ten minutes away on foot — his mind was honed, laser-focused, on his mission.

At least, that’s what he told himself.

In truth, Yonny was nervous — more so than he accounted for. It wasn’t as if he would get in trouble for coming here alone; in fact, his grounding had ended just in time for a sunny weekend, and his parents seemed thrilled to approve of his request to spend time outside. (He had no doubt part of it had to do with their shock in learning Yonny, at last, made a friend: a feat he had tried to achieve on repeat since enrollment, with demoralizing failure as his only past result.) Given how often he and Dingo spent time together, Yonny shouldn’t have been clutching Dingo’s bulky jacket like he was trying to asphyxiate it. Dingo was a good person, so surely he wouldn’t be too upset about the coat’s all-too-delayed return?

Once again lost in his thoughts, Yonny almost walked into a red blur: one which raced right past him at the speed of a bullet.

With a startled squeak, Yonny withdrew, hugging the oversized jacket to his chest. He followed the blur with his eyes, only to see Dingo twist in a pinpoint turn and run directly back in Yonny’s direction.

Then he went past him. Then again. And again.

Yonny broke down into a fit of giggles as his surprise wore off and he realized what was happening. “Oh, my.” Adjusting his glasses on his nose, Yonny bore a toothy grin. “Does someone have the zoomies?”

At that, Dingo turned towards Yonny one more time, ran back over, and skidded to a halt. Short of breath, Dingo sported wide eyes, wild hair, and a blindingly bright smile. “Yeah!” he chirruped, tapping his feet on the ground like he was raring to go. “I got them when I saw you!”

Yonny’s heart — which was already beating at a quickened tempo due to the adrenaline of avoiding an imminent collision — picked up the pace for a whole other reason. It often did this around Dingo. He was aware there could be… implications to such a response… though nothing he could call certain, despite its regularity. Yonny had analyzed this matter, to be sure, but given he’d only known Dingo for just under a month, he determined there hadn’t been sufficient time and evidence to put together a theory — let alone draw a conclusion.

All that said, Dingo’s sincere confession — delivered with his usual upbeat bluntness — was enough to scatter the clouds of Yonny’s thoughts and fill his head with sunshine. With a delighted chirrup and a buck of his legs, Yonny popcorned, almost dropping the coat thanks to the sheer joy in his jolt.

As Yonny’s feet met the ground again, he realized that Dingo had reached forth to help grab the large jacket. Their fingers brushed; Dingo was close. Both of these facts helped skip the melting stage for Yonny’s excessive nerves, allowing them to sublimate in a way that lived up to the term sublime. His anxieties faded as a faint, fluttery feeling filled Yonny’s stomach instead. Better still, Dingo’s laugh, warm and good-natured and oddly grounding, led Yonny to wonder if this is what it meant to live in the moment.

“Woah, there!” Dingo chuckled. “Glad the excitement’s mutual!”

“Eheheheh!” Yonny giggled; Dingo’s enthusiasm was so contagious. “Why wouldn’t it be? First of all, we have the whole morning—.”

“—Of fun,” Dingo added, eyes glimmering.

Yonny giggled harder. “And— eheheh, yes, and second of all, guess who finally remembered to return your coat?”

“Oh!” At that, Dingo withdrew, taking the jacket with him. Yonny followed Dingo’s eyes as they scanned it over. In a manner somewhat unusual for him, Dingo appeared to be lost in thought. Then, as if reaffirming that this was indeed still Dingo, he nodded and pushed the coat against Yonny’s chest in a firm but gentle press. “Nah. It’s okay. You can have it.”

Yonny’s eyebrows arched up as his ears flattened. “I beg your pardon?” Though he tried to maintain a composed edge to his tone, it was still clearly taken aback. (It seemed Dingo had a way of bringing out Yonny’s unfiltered reactions: a sensation otherwise alien to him.)

Upon hearing Yonny’s question, Dingo crossed his arms and quirked a brow. The sound that came out of him was a perfect hybrid of a laugh and a huff. “Please, Yon. I’ve seen the way you burrow and hum while you wear it. You nuzzle its collar, all snug as a bug in a rug.”

At Dingo’s friendly callout, Yonny felt his blood rush to his cheeks.

“And I can’t blame you!” Dingo continued, holding up his hands. “It’s warm, roomy, and super comfy. Plus the mornings have still been weirdly cold as of late, and like Dad always said, the coat’s big enough to grow into.” He shrugged. “So… yeah. Keep it.”

Yonny blinked a few times as if that would somehow help him process what was happening. This was an unexpected turn of events; it threw a wrench into Yonny’s internal calculus. While Yonny had prepared insufficiently for social situations before, he had always known as much in advance; he’d be fully aware of his gaps in knowledge and perception prior to engaging. But Dingo refusing to take the coat back? Yonny hadn’t taken that possibility into account. Shaking his head a little, Yonny lifted a hand to his face, jostling his glasses and straining to keep holding the massive jacket in one arm.

“Hold on.” With a deep breath, Yonny opened his eyes to see Dingo helping support the coat with one hand, his friend’s brows furrowed in apparent concern. “Why? Err, not that I’m complaining,” Yonny clarified, swallowing and holding it out towards Dingo. “Rather, I want to understand. You called this jacket your favorite, right? Additionally, you’ve given me regular reminders to return it. Shouldn’t logic dictate you want it back?”

Unlike Yonny, who remained thrown for a loop, it seemed as if Dingo needed no time to think through his answer. He didn’t hesitate in the slightest.

“Maybe. I won’t deny that I still like the coat.” With that, Dingo slipped it out of Yonny’s hands, walked around him, and draped it over Yonny’s back like a cape: a direct mirror of the way he gave it to Yonny in the first place. “But you look happier when you wear it than I would be.” Pulling back around to face Yonny, Dingo gave him another loose shrug and a slanted smile. “So take it. Don’t make me wrestle it into your pack, now.”

Yonny grew increasingly certain that his blush could have been seen from the top of the plateau by someone looking down at them. Slipping his hands into the arms of the jacket and zipping it up, he turtled the bottom half of his face into the popped collar as if that would save him from his own, overwhelmed insides.

You’re the nicest person I’ve ever met, Yonny wanted to say. I’m flattered you’d let me keep it, he also considered. It’s the first gift I recall getting that doesn’t feel forced, he swallowed back, recognizing that would be too much.

Instead, tongue tied from his stuttering heart, Yonny tried not to tear up as he mumbled a soft, sincere, “Thank you.”

Dingo’s whole face brightened. He balled his hand into a fist and tapped it against Yonny’s shoulder in a soft bro-punch. “No problem, mate!”

Mate.

This time, Yonny’s pretty sure his heart came to a full stop. In some faint, quiet corner of his mind, he deemed it a miracle he didn’t expire right then and there. It’s not like he hadn’t considered the possibility — it was part of what drove Yonny to get in detention so they could meet — but for Dingo to call him that with such bluntness….

“Mate??” Yonny parroted, bewildered, voice half an octave higher than usual. Forget seeing his blush from the plateau — by now, an interstellar pilot could witness it from space.

Dingo pulled back, face scrunched in confusion. They locked eyes for a moment, and Yonny could almost see the gears turning in Dingo’s head before his friend’s brows raised in recognition. “Oh! Sorry, that’s Isle slang. Where my parents are from, mate is another way to call someone buddy or pal. You know that?”

“I did not,” Yonny said, realizing this thought became words before he could restrain it.

At least Dingo didn’t seem offended — he just chuckled and gestured for Yonny to walk and talk with him. “Well, now you do! Though… I’m pretty sure I must’ve called you that before, right, Yon?”

Come to think of it, you have. Yonny bit his lip to keep it from slipping as he followed Dingo towards a line of trees. His eyes darted from side to side as he processed his thoughts. Exactly once, before I began earnest consideration over the fact that we might… that we might be…. Yonny looked down at his feet, claws sliding out as he clutched his coat.

Out loud, he murmured, “Perhaps. I think I was slow on the uptake. Sorry, I thought for a moment you meant….” Pushing down his shirt and coat collars, Yonny pointed to one of his own cheeks and tapped it.

The instant after seeing this, Dingo tripped over his shoes. Yonny’s eyes widened and he was about to reach out in a worried reflex, but his companion caught himself before he fell onto the dusty ground.

“Oh!” Dingo’s hands twitched. A murkiness passed over his eyes, which were normally so bright and clear, and he looked away from Yonny with a promptness that made Yonny’s chest squeeze. “…Oh.”

Dingo sounded… subdued. Nerves bunched in Yonny’s heart, and he wondered right away if he said too much. However, this was the first time the subject was broached by either of them. Yonny knew he had to traverse this situation with unprecedented caution, but if he were successful — and if his hopes proved true — then perhaps the two of them could walk away knowing that there was nothing to fear anymore. That they wouldn’t have to spend their whole lives searching for some nebulous partner. That they would be guaranteed to always have each other.

For a moment, the only sounds around them were a faint wind and the thumping of their shoes against the ground. A minor, uphill trudge began. Yonny gathered his will and spoke.

“I noticed you never talk about them.”

Dingo slowed to a halt. Sliding his hands into his coat’s pockets, Yonny cleared his throat. “Your soulmate, that is.”

In front of him, Yonny heard the distinct sound of an annoyed chuff. He winced as Dingo replied. “Neither do you,” he muttered. Quiet. Defensive.

Yonny’s ears flattened. He grimaced, mouth hidden by his jacket’s collar, but even then, Dingo wasn’t looking at him. Ergo, Dingo wouldn’t see how hard that cut. “That’s…” Fighting the urge to retaliate, Yonny took a shaky breath; an argument now wouldn’t lead to even the slightest productive discussion. Moreover, Dingo’s observation was….

“Fair.” Yonny sighed. “That’s fair. I haven’t, have I?”

One of Dingo’s ears swiveled. After another moment, Dingo turned; although the heaviness in Yonny’s heart remained, Dingo’s expression suggested a more open mind than his tone a moment ago betrayed. Sitting down at the base of a tree, Dingo patted the ground beside him. An invitation.

Yonny settled himself next to Dingo. This wouldn’t be easy, but he had to persevere.

“Do you remember the giant flood? The one that sent the whole city into a panic a few years back?”

Dingo nodded.

Pulling his hands out of his coat, Yonny played with the tips of his own fingers. It helped him focus, if only a bit, as the crushing weight of his emotions was making it otherwise difficult to think. “I’ll never forget it. The rush, the crowds, the sirens. When I remember those, a nightmare follows me to sleep. It’s the same bad dream, every time, without fail.”

Yonny heard a long, steadying breath. A warm presence grasped his hands, and Yonny saw Dingo’s pale fingers wrap around them. Peering up, Yonny met Dingo’s eyes. He imagined their expressions matched right then: soft and subdued.

“You don’t have to tell me if you don’t wanna,” Dingo murmured. “Sorry. I….”

“No.”

Dingo’s head lifted, eyes widening and ears twitching in blatant surprise as Yonny continued speaking. “I want to tell you. It’s just… rough.”

A look of pure, mortified devastation passed Dingo’s face. Abrupt and loud compared to the rest of this conversation, he blurted, “They didn’t die in the flood, did they??”

Despite everything, Yonny let out a small chuckle. A twinkle shone in his eyes as he gave Dingo a tiny grin. “I sure hope not!”

Dingo let out an immense, exaggerated breath, his whole upper body deflating. “Oh, thank goodness. I was about to feel like the scum of Ohri, making you bring up their tragic loss all ‘cause of my big dumb mouth.”

Since they were sitting side by side, Yonny nudged Dingo with his shoulder, unable to suppress the giggle in his chest. “Eheh, you’re fine, I promise. Althooough…” Yonny’s smile waned to something almost nonexistent, “…not to worry you, but that is my recurring nightmare. Meeting my soulmate at their funeral, knowing we never had the chance to have a life together. Never having the opportunity to get to know them, and…” Yonny steadied his breath, understanding this could be a bombshell. “And learning they died on the very day we encountered each other, by accident, fleeing from the same disaster.”

“…Wait.” Dingo pulled back and scooted around until he was right in front of Yonny. His pupils were enormous. “You mean to tell me you got yours on the day of the flood, too?”

Too. That was the magic word. The ice around Yonny’s heart cracked at a sudden burst of warmth, perfect and sharp and real. “Yes! I did!”

“No way!” Dingo grabbed Yonny’s arms, and Yonny laughed a little as he was jostled by his friend’s boisterous hands. “Yon, that’s insane!”

“Right?” Yonny chirped, buoyant from excitement.

He opened his mouth to keep talking — to admit to what he’d been wondering, and how it seemed at that moment how true it could be — but Dingo beat him to it.

“Hold on. I take it you haven’t found them, then?”

Yonny’s eyes sparkled. Anything he would have said earlier couldn’t have possibly matched this as a segue. “Weeell, I might have a suspect in mind….”

“Then you haven’t.” Dingo nodded, as plain and blunt as if he spoke the truth. “Okay.”

Yonny blinked. The smile slipped off his face as he buffered, processing Dingo’s statement as if he were translating it from a language he barely knew. “I’m sorry?”

“Hmm? Oh!” Dingo straightened up, squaring his shoulders like he was answering the call of duty. “I guess your folks haven’t told you, then? Well, here’s some good news! Even though you didn’t get the soulmate zing, you’ll still know them when you meet them. Trust me!”

Yonny froze. “Does… does that mean you’ve met yours?”

“Nah, not yet.” Dingo scratched the back of his own head after pushing some of his hair out of his eyes. “I’m sure I will soon enough, though. It’ll be magic!”

Yonny’s shoulders slacked. He huffed, aiming to quell Dingo’s certainty. “But if you haven’t had that happen to you, how can you be sure?” Perhaps it was the fact that they were in one another’s space, but for once, Yonny felt himself reacting purely on instinct.

“C’mon, Yon!” Dingo laughed a bit. “They’re my parents. They wouldn’t lie to me.”

“I wouldn’t call it lying, but how are they so sure?” Yonny pressed.

Dingo’s own smile disappeared. “Because they read the news?”

Yonny scoffed. “I’m just saying, how coincidental would it be to meet someone who also got their soulmarks on that day in this area—?”

“It’s happened to more than just us,” Dingo countered, eyes narrowing. “Dad says there’s been a record number of cases that got interviewed in the papers and stuff. It’s serious!”

“Well, did those people find their soulmates after the flood?” Only the far corner of Yonny’s mind was aware how he’d gotten even closer to Dingo, almost in his face as he pursued the argument.

Dingo flinched back. “Yon—.”

“Did they feel the traditional, telltale signs?”

“Yon, hey—.”

“Did they specifically report that to the press?”

“Yonny—.”

“I’m just dying to know what makes you so utterly certain—.”

“Shut up!”

All at once, Yonny was shoved with both of Dingo’s hands against his chest. Back thumping into the trunk of a tree, the wind knocked out of his lungs as leaves skated to the ground. Dingo was crouching in front of him, panting, mouth open wide and tiny fangs bared.

Three long, silent seconds passed.

Yonny felt like he’d been drenched in cold water. As fear and despair crept in, he saw Dingo’s own expression crack into one of misery and regret. Seeing the tears prickle in Dingo’s eyes was enough to make them well in Yonny’s own.

“My apologies.”

“I’m sorry, I—.”

They paused, having both spoken at once. Dingo took initiative and crawled over, sheepish and head bowed. “I didn’t mean to push you. I just….” He trailed off before rolling onto his back: submissive and ashamed. His wavering voice matched the quiver of his lip. “Can we… just stop talking about this, please? I know it hurts. Please, Yon. I’m so sorry.”

Yonny couldn’t talk anymore. His heart broke.

He sobbed.

Dingo gasped. “Yon?” All at once, Yonny felt Dingo surge forward and tug him into a tight hug. Yonny curled into it, barnacled and quaking, burying his face against Dingo’s shoulder. This time, despite having Dingo’s arms really and truly around him, Yonny couldn’t feel his warmth through the insulating outer layer of the coat; instead, the embrace felt more like mere, squeezing pressure, as if all the joy had been sucked out of it. With Dingo so close and yet so far, Yonny clung to his chest and every reminder of his presence: the warmth of Dingo’s neck against his face, the feeling of one of his hands running through his hair, and Dingo’s shaky wails as he apologized over and over and over again — as if Yonny might never forgive him if he didn’t.

At that notion, Yonny managed to shove words past the strong nonverbal barrier. “I’m sorry! Sorry, Dingo. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry—.” He might as well have repeated it a thousand times. Removed from his robust vocabulary in the throes of such feeling, Yonny’s body tried to compensate with volume.

Dingo bawled louder in return. He, too, it seemed, ran out of words, and could only share his emotions with the intensity of his cries.

Perhaps, in that way, Yonny wasn’t alone after all.

#

Despite the boys calming down after crying it out, the rest of the playdate felt… off.

It wasn’t awful by any means — they enjoyed companionable quiet as they plucked amber off trees, took a walk, and talked about everything and nothing. But the discernible shift in mood lingered, much to Yonny’s dismay. It was his fault and he knew it; he shouldn’t have pushed the soulmate subject. Worse still, despite Dingo asserting that he had fun the rest of the morning and was looking forward to meeting again on Monday, Yonny struggled to believe him.

To be honest, he struggled to believe this whole mess.

For obvious reasons, the topic had been dropped for the rest of the morning. However, Yonny couldn’t eradicate it from his mind. After entering his family home through the back, tiptoeing past his parents’ study, and skulking up to his room, he let out a sharp, moody sigh. At least here he could mull over the matter in a private, controlled simmer.

Why had Dingo been so adamant that he would know his soulmate when he saw them? Just because his parents said so? Yonny’s own parents were neither omniscient nor clairvoyant, and he felt it was reasonable to expect that those mortal limitations applied to Dingo’s as well. Keeping abreast of current events could have lent a level of credence to Dingo’s claim, but as far as Yonny was concerned, there were still too many unknowns. Even if he assumed Dingo hadn’t misunderstood his parents and was repeating their findings verbatim, what were their sources? How credible were they? How recent? Were there any papers Yonny could cite, trustworthy and up-to-date, that he could use to convince Dingo that neither of them might know who their soulmate is right away?

It infuriated him that he wasn’t sure.

Luckily, that could be remedied.

Although the pressure of time was no object, Yonny didn’t waste a second in grabbing the family Ohreader tablet and unlocking it with a practiced swipe. Once its built-in search engine was set to “scholarly sources only,” he typed in keywords he figured would yield the most results and gave it a minute to load. While it buffered, he whipped out his journal, grabbed his favorite green pen, and got situated for a research session.

It was time to find the truth.

#

Ten minutes became thirty.

Thirty minutes became an hour.

One hour ticked by to two, and Yonny was forced to take a break from the tablet to eat lunch, lest he receive yet another lecture for being “glued to a screen.” (A hypocritical diatribe, Yonny was aware, but one he couldn’t speak out against if he wanted to maintain his privileges.) He kept conversation clipped and calm — well-practiced after dealing with his parents for his whole life. Upon finishing his food, he waited the requisite ten minutes for his parents to also wrap up their meal; this eliminated the chance that they would snap at him for leaving before everyone was done. All things considered, he managed a hasty enough getaway, and was back to work in a reasonable time.

The lunch break, though agitating, allowed Yonny to reflect on his findings thus far while ignoring his parents’ rambles about dull, grownup topics. (He would never understand why adults were obsessed with road closures and next week’s weather.) Alas, while the sources Yonny encountered were interesting (if also heartbreaking; they cut close to home), they failed to provide the critical evidence he needed to make a compelling argument against Dingo’s stance.

Namely: none of these publications detailed people who were initially uncertain of their soulmate’s identity, but realized it at a later date.

Yonny refused to believe that three years wasn’t enough time for at least one such case to crop up. Three years covered 37.5% of Yonny’s eight years of living. Three years was the difference between the Yonny who started his education, shy and fragile and too weird to make friends, and the Yonny who was now a far more physically, mentally, and emotionally mature kid. Three years was a very long time. There had to have been something.

But perhaps Yonny was aiming too high. It had grown apparent, after several scholarly searches with alternate keywords, that it could be tough to find a relevant result that was reviewed and approved by social science professionals. Three years would be more than enough for news, but as it turned out, research papers could supposedly take decades. Regrettable as it was, it seemed Yonny had to pull back.

At least his audience was Dingo. If his friend has been persuaded by secondhand news, surely obtaining and sharing an article that would enforce Yonny’s point would be more than sufficient to change his mind. Right?

Sighing as he settled back in his chair and flipping to a blank page for more notes, Yonny turned off the academic search filter and retyped his keywords.

Okay. Let’s see what else is out there.

###

By night, Yonny was sure he had read every article even tangentially related to his cause.

Dingo hadn’t been kidding when he said that there was a record number of people whose first contact with their soulmate was overwhelmed by the fright and panic of a major disaster. While it couldn’t be called common in good conscience, the per capita statistic was unprecedented. Some journalists even reported a term certain victims were using to describe themselves: soulmissed, a portmanteau referencing missing the usual symptoms that an Ohrian had encountered their soulmate.

Yonny felt a dull ache in his chest at how accurate that felt.

And an even duller ache at how little he had uncovered.

While the number of articles was decent, few delved into Yonny’s main objective beyond speculation. Opinion pieces were not Yonny’s goal; only evidence would do. He found two separate articles on the same couple: supposed soulmates who — to Yonny’s dismay — seemed sincerely certain that they were meant to be, even though they had only just met the day prior to the articles’ dates. However, as he browsed their host sites’ main pages, he concluded that these sources were sketchy at best. These were the sorts of news outlets his social studies teacher wouldn’t let him reference in an essay without docking significant points; if they weren’t good enough for that, then they wouldn’t be good enough to convince Yonny to give up his search just yet.

“Yonny?”

He jolted. Snapping his head back, he peered over his shoulder to see his mother, who was leaning in the door frame with a hand on her left hip. One of her brows was raised high on her head. “Yonny, darling, it’s 7:30. You ought to put the tablet down and take your bath.”

Blinking, Yonny turned to face his clock. His mother was being generous, it seemed; the actual time read as 7:32. He faltered. “Oh.”

“Is something wrong?” Yonny flinched in the almost imperceptible way he would whenever either of his parents asked that; they seldom did at an appropriate time, but this was a rare exception. With a sigh, his mother approached his chair, settling a hand on its back and another on his desk. Yonny understood that she was trying to look him in the eye, but he couldn’t meet her gaze. “Not to bring it up again, but you seemed out of it at lunch. Dinner, too.”

Twice in one day wasn’t quite a record, but it was still uncomfortable: Yonny found himself dissected from speech once more. It seemed the brief “don’t worry; I’m fine” he offered her earlier wasn’t enough. Silent from stress, he took a deep breath to try and steady his wrists as he picked up the Ohreader, pulled up his recent search history, and lifted it towards her. An attempt to connect.

Then his mother sighed again and tutted, as she often did, with a disapproving shake of her head. “Yonny. What has your father told you about using your words?”

Yonny’s fingers twitched. He bowed his head, swallowing, reaching for a voice that wouldn’t emerge. Words are the quickest and most effective way to convey your thoughts, echoed the voice of his father in his head. That was what he knew his mother was referencing, but Yonny nonetheless recalled the subsequent statements as if they were spoken yesterday: Expand your vocabulary to speak with clarity and precision. It will suit a young man with brilliant potential far better than passive silence. There’s no need to be self-conscious of your voice. There’s no need to withdraw.

At least his mother didn’t press the point yet. She took the tablet and was quiet for a moment; Yonny imagined she was scanning the list. The clock changed to 7:33.

Yet another sigh. “Ah. I see.”

Yonny’s hands twitched. He reached for his pen, flipping to a fresh page in his journal. It wasn’t easy to write when he felt like this, but it was much better than trying to talk.

He aimed to focus on the critical, channeling his frustration over the fact that these news articles weren’t any good. He had to get to the bottom of how the process of discovering one’s soulmate felt and functioned. There had to be some variance, some catch in the system. There had to be an uncommon exception. Surely, there had to be.

Could you or Father please drive me to the library tomorrow?

Holding open his journal and the question it bore, he turned in his chair and peered up at his mother with nervous hope. His ears swiveled down and he pouted, attempting to mimic Dingo’s begging face his friend had used in detention. Perhaps that would be enough?

No. Instead, she pushed the book back down towards Yonny’s face.

“We’re not taking you anywhere until you can ask with your words. Besides, there’s no point in researching soulmates if it won’t help in school. Don’t worry about it until you’re grown up.” Snapping her fingers, his mother pointed to the open door and down the hall towards the bathroom. “Now go bathe and get ready for bed. Things will be better in the morning.”

Yonny’s chest squeezed. He wanted to lash out because he did ask with words; they were just written rather than spoken. He wanted to object to the notion that there was no point in further research because that attitude can kill others’ drives to learn. He wanted to convince her that no, things wouldn’t magically improve by morning just because he got some sleep in the middle of his crisis.

But Yonny’s face stayed neutral as he set his journal down. Pushing out his chair and standing up, he rooted for pajamas and underwear in his nightstand beneath his mother’s searing gaze. Then, still silent, he maneuvered towards the door to exit his bedroom, fingers drumming at the underside of his bundled clothes: a clandestine release of tension.

“Yonny.” He paused as his mother approached, understanding that continuing to move would incite only anger. Placing one hand on his shoulder and cupping his cheek with the other, she tried to move his face in what he was sure was another effort to make eye contact; Yonny looked down at her wrist instead. “I know it must seem like I’m being hard on you, but this is tough love. I’m trying to help you grow as a person. You know that, right?”

You are being hard on me, was Yonny’s inward correction. On the outside, he patted his mother’s wrist and gave her a wan smile.

She smiled back. “I love you, darling.”

Leaning his face against her stomach, Yonny allowed his mother to hug him. The pajamas in his arms were the perfect excuse to not return it.

###

As if Yonny would let the lack of a hovercar mean he couldn’t access the library.

It was a point of pride to not bend to his mother’s demand. Excusing himself from the house with a nonexistent followup playdate with Dingo at the park, Yonny pulled out his journal and reviewed his handwritten notes for the walking directions procured from an incognito search. What would have been only a five minute drive to the library became a thirty minute walk on his short legs. The urban streets he crossed were bustling and dirty, and Yonny was pretty sure he saw no fewer than six traffic violations, but the long trek would be worth it. Yonny had persuaded himself of that.

Making a beeline for the soulmate section, he checked out nonfiction book after nonfiction book with his under-13 library card, scanning their indexes or glossaries for anything that might relate. Any and all matters that related to how Ohrians achieve their eureka, their fundamental moment of recognition, were read. For the next several hours, Yonny poured them over, making notes of any discrepancies he could find.

They were all minor.

As time dragged on and nothing new came up, and the librarian wouldn’t let him check out a series of advanced books due to being “for mature readers,” Yonny was left on his rear, somewhere towards the back, stunned to the point of sorrow being veiled by confusion.

Was that really it? Had he exhausted all his options? Every author — every institute — that had a published text here described the potent, powerful physical sensations. Not a single one expressed even the most minute hint of subtlety in their participants’ instant of realization. It was all blatant. Brazen. Bludgeoning.

All at once, Yonny went numb.

He tried to shake the feeling as he put the books away and closed his journal listing every research paper, article, and book he’d reviewed. He tried to shake the feeling as he went to the library cafe, pulled out a few coins from his pants pocket, and got himself some juice. He tried to shake the feeling as his eyes watered a few sips in; Yonny had to pull away from the straw to not choke on suppressed tears.

I’m so stupid. Yonny folded his arms on the table and rested his face on them, shielding his eyes from the artificial lights. I did all this research and spent all this time trying to… what, exactly? Turn my wishful thinking into facts? It occurred to Yonny right then, as he forced steadying breaths through his twitchy lungs, that perhaps he had never begun this quest in order to learn at all. Perhaps it was a vanity mission from the onset, stemming from the urge to not look dumb in front of his new friend. After all, Dingo had merely continued his pattern of challenging Yonny’s perception. And, however heartbreaking, the one time Yonny craved for him to be wrong, Dingo appeared to be right.

Except… that couldn’t be it. Yonny was sure. If it were, Yonny wouldn’t have felt desolated. He’d never been too fussed about being wrong before; it was a natural part of existing as a fallible person. What Yonny was feeling now spoke of a deeper-seated desire: the hopeful undercurrent that pushed him to seek Dingo out in the first place. 

Yonny squeezed his hands into fists, realizing mid-sob that maybe all he’d been doing was trying to validate the feelings eroding at him from the moment they met.

Dingo was amazing. He could scale any surface in under a minute, lift twice his body weight, and bite through a sturdy branch in under four seconds. His drive for justice resonated with Yonny, deep and immense and true. Furthermore, Yonny could listen to Dingo talk all day long; his knowledge on video games, comics, fossils, and survivalism was commendable. When Dingo spoke about the natural world and everything beautiful he’d seen or wanted to see on his rare hikes with his mum, he would smile brighter than Ohri’s sun could ever glow. His laugh was warm; it could fill a whole room, let alone Yonny’s heart. And he never forced Yonny to speak when he couldn’t, to do things that made him uncomfortable, or to resist his urges to fidget and sway. Dingo didn’t judge him harshly — not even for the interests Yonny heard his parents and teachers wish were “normal.” Yonny could be himself around Dingo. That was the sort of person Dingo was.

So why wouldn’t Yonny want them to be soulmates?

Picking himself up, Yonny expedited his retreat from the library, his juice box and backpack in tow. If he cried any louder, he’d cause a disturbance, and the last thing he wanted was to get his card revoked for being a sad, pathetic kid.

Once outside, he found a suitably solitary spot and let it all out. He would need the dry eyes before he got home if he didn’t want to subject himself to another one of his parents’ “check-ins.”

And it was only once he got home, mind slowly clearing from the fog that had enveloped him, that Yonny took a deep breath to try and accept the hand he’d been dealt.

Dingo wasn’t his soulmate. That was the truth, and it sucked. But no one said they couldn’t be best friends forever. No one said Yonny would have to give up on their companionship just because some bond beyond his understanding didn’t say they would have Ohri’s deepest connection. Dingo was no less incredible for not being Yonny’s soulmate; he was awesome just the way he was. And even if he weren’t half as cool, he meant a lot to Yonny already — soulmate bond or otherwise. Yonny knew from the moment he met Dingo that his friendship would be worth not only acquiring, but fighting for. That they could be each other’s “ride or die,” as Dingo might put it.

A niggling, clawing part of Yonny murmured protest. He was sure he could adapt to ignore its whispers: the corner of his mind that cried he might have already sunk too deep. But he would trivialize that — he’d refuse to let it matter or give it power. Determined to be the best friend he could possibly be for Dingo, Yonny cemented this new mission into his mind.

And he would start by giving him a proper apology when they met at school tomorrow.

#

Dingo didn’t show up that morning.

Yonny tried not to think too much of it. There were so many reasons a kid could be late. Despite how close he and Dingo both lived to school, delays could happen. One morning when he cut it close to the bell, Dingo had expressed that sometimes he or his dad would lose track of time — worst of all on Mondays, which today happened to be. No matter, Yonny told himself as he zipped through some trivial math problems on his worksheet that morning. I’m sure I’ll see him at lunch.

But then, several hours later, he didn’t find Dingo at their usual spot. This was the first time Dingo hadn’t been there before him; evidently, his class prior to lunch was located much closer to the courtyard than Yonny’s was. Dingo’s absence was more than a little noticeable… and more than a little worrying.

By the time Yonny finished eating, Dingo still hadn’t made a grand appearance. Yonny’s heart sank as it occurred to him that perhaps his friend was fully absent. Crestfallen and concerned, he tossed the dregs of his lunch into a recycler, donned his backpack, and surveyed the courtyard. Scanning the other tables for Dingo and not finding any sign of him, all Yonny could do was hope that he was okay. Could Dingo have been out because he was sick? Hurt? Worse? School policy disallowed students from bringing electronics (which Yonny’s parents would strictly enforce), so it wasn’t like Yonny could message Dingo and ask if he was all right.

One circumnavigation later, Yonny heaved a heavy sigh. It seemed like he’d have to wait until tomorrow to make it up to Dingo. Not ideal, but there wasn’t anything Yonny could do.

So… now what? With his friend absent, how would he spend his break?

After a little thought, Yonny elected, for the first time in ages, to sit alone at his favorite bench: the one beneath the tree where Dingo first swooped down to save his skin. Just approaching it was enough to ease the cavity in Yonny’s chest. This was where that glorious memory took place, under a large tree with sprawling branches a respectable distance from the rest of the rabble. If only for today, he could pass recess as he used to, reading for his assignments in peace.

Or so Yonny assumed, until he heard a soft, shivery whimper from above.

He stilled. Ears perking, Yonny set his backpack down and tiptoed under the boughs, silent as he searched for the source of the sound. Despite the sniffling, whoever was amongst the pale branches and russet leaves had a superb layer of camouflage; it took something wet landing on his face for Yonny to finally pinpoint his target:

Dingo. He was on a branch, quivering, suppressing his more audible whines but nonetheless crying. It was a teardrop that had hit Yonny’s face.

Yonny gasped. “Dingo?”

Dingo froze. From below, Yonny watched his friend pull in on himself — to Dingo’s credit, he was almost soundless. “Uh… Dingo who?”

“What’s wrong?” It was Yonny’s turn to cut to the heart of the matter. Rushing forward, he placed his palms against the trunk of the tree and craned his neck, staring directly up to get a better look at his friend. “Are you okay?”

“I’m a tree. I don’t have feelings.” Yonny was sure Dingo intended for those statements to sound defiant and snappy, but Dingo’s wavering voice shook the fight right out of them.

Yonny’s mind raced. Every fiber of his being wanted to comfort Dingo, but how could he do that from all the way down here? If Dingo was being difficult about being acknowledged, then what were the chances Yonny could convince him to descend? Microscopic. So, logically, there was only one thing Yonny could do.

Unsheathing his claws, he dug them into the tree’s trunk and grabbed the lowest branch.

Dingo’s sniffling stopped. “What are you doing?”

Determined, Yonny channeled all his arm and upper body strength into attempting to climb the tree. Physical education was his worst subject by far — sometimes Yonny would joke that he could be bested by a wet paper towel — but witnessing the sorry state of his first and only friend served as momentous motivation. Straining and hissing, he tried not to skid the bottoms of his worn sneakers as he barely managed to pull himself up. Then, while the adrenaline was hot, Yonny made to scrabble even higher. He half-stood on the bough and extended his hand.

Dingo’s eyes widened. “Yon, watch out!”

The branch snapped under Yonny’s weight.

In any other circumstance, he would have fallen to the ground and perhaps bruised his hips and tailbone against the stones and soil of the tree’s planter. However, just as Yonny let out a yelp of fright and made his peace with death, both of Dingo’s hands clasped around Yonny’s; Dingo’s legs, tightly straddling his own bough, were all that were holding him up and preventing them both from falling.

“Hold on — I’ve got you!”

With a low grunt and enough core strength to make even an adult jealous, Dingo then growled and lifted them up enough for Yonny to grasp the underside of Dingo’s branch and haul himself onto it.

As soon as Dingo no longer had to support Yonny’s weight, he maneuvered himself upright and panted, eyes huge. As Yonny caught his breath, Dingo was the first to speak. “Are you nuts?” His eyes flicked down towards the ground, then back up to Yonny’s face. “You’ve never climbed a tree before, and this one’s branches are old and brittle from the cold. That wasn’t an easy technique you were using, either. You could’ve—.”

Yonny tugged Dingo into a hug. Feeling his friend go still against him, Yonny nosed his cheek and buried his face in his shoulder. “I’ve got you, too,” he wheezed, still short of breath. “I’ve got you, okay?”

For a moment, Yonny stayed that way, cradling Dingo like he was precious, hoping that this attention wasn’t unwanted. The pause was long. However, just before Yonny could worry, he heard another whimper and felt Dingo’s arms wrap around him, warm and close and shaky. Small sobs began escaping Dingo’s throat. Yonny tightened his embrace, determined to have Dingo feel his resolve, to understand that Yonny wouldn’t leave him like this.

They remained like this for a while. Yonny didn’t speak — this time not because he couldn’t, but because he wanted to ensure that Dingo would be well enough to reply before he did. Remaining in one another’s arms, Yonny gave Dingo’s back light, soft scratches. The sobs dwindled back to whimpers, then the whimpers reduced to sniffles. At last, after what must have been many long minutes, Yonny earned a tiny trill from scratching Dingo’s upper back.

Yonny smiled. “Better?”

There was a grungy whine. “A little.”

Yonny would have chuckled if he weren’t so concerned. Withdrawing, he took in the sight of Dingo’s face. Blotchy and pale, his trail of faint freckles shimmered with tear stains. Furrowing his brows, Yonny cupped one of Dingo’s cheeks. “Are you okay?” he repeated, gentler this time.

Dingo nuzzled Yonny’s palm. His mouth scrunched and he teared up again, voice sounding tight in his chest. “No.”

Yonny’s own chest clutched at the sound. His ears drooped. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Dingo snuffled and looked aside. “It’s dumb.”

“I wouldn’t classify anything that brings you to tears as ‘dumb.’”

Another pause. The tree’s leaves rustled in the warm afternoon breeze, as if the setting itself let out a sigh of relief. At the same time, Yonny watched Dingo take a slow, deep breath, hold it, and release. A quiet second passed.

“We’re friends. Right, Yon?”

At that, Yonny’s brows almost shot off his head. “Of course we’re friends.” Mind racing, Yonny wondered what he might have said or done that could convince Dingo this wasn’t the case. Immediately, the events of the preceding Saturday rushed back to him, and Yonny just about reeled in anguish. “If— if this is about last weekend, I….”

“Sort of?” Dingo cut Yonny off, straightening himself up and placing a hand on each of Yonny’s wrists. His calloused palms served as an anchor, preventing Yonny’s thoughts from spiraling beyond control. “More like I’d been thinking about everything. And last night, I had a nightmare, too.”

Yonny blinked. A million prospective scenarios flashed in his mind, but outwardly all he said was a shocked, curious, “Oh?”

Dingo averted his gaze again. “I dreamt you found your soulmate.”

Yonny’s brows rose higher, if that were even possible. Before he could ask any questions, Dingo continued. “All you wanted to do was be with her. No matter what cool things I said we could do together, you never made time for me. You ignored me whenever I talked to you. And then…” Dingo bowed his head, and his voice grew tighter. “…Then, one day, you forgot who I was, and when I told you, you said you didn’t need me anymore.”

At that, Yonny’s heart cracked in half. “Oh, Dingo.” Slipping his hands up, he laced his fingers with his friend’s and squeezed their palms together. “Why would I ever do that?”

“Because she was perfect for you.”

Despite the vulnerability in Dingo’s tone, Yonny’s ears detected some sharpness to that word. Dingo almost spat it out; it was spiteful in a way Yonny couldn’t quite place. “Perfect for me?” Yonny echoed, confused.

“She was pretty and smart. Every science thing you enjoy, she knew, and you’d never look bored when you were with her. You two had the same taste in books, talking nonstop about how much you both liked them. Everything she said made you smile or laugh. You’d hold her hand and hug her all. The. Time.” The mild sharpness intensified into an obvious, cutting hiss as fresh tears rolled down Dingo’s cheeks. He bowed his head and quaked. “Then you’d tell her you loved her over and over and over again — and I don’t know why, but it made me so mad.”

Dumbstruck, Yonny blinked a few times as he tried to gather his thoughts. This situation took a turn he hadn’t been expecting when he saw Dingo this upset. But being in a baffled haze would have to wait; with how Dingo paused, peering up at Yonny past his messy red hair with some complex amalgam of rage and despair, Yonny got the gut feeling that his friend expected him to speak. Making a hasty decision was difficult when he felt like he was thinking too much and too little simultaneously, so in an effort to do something — anything — Yonny ran with his first idea.

Dingo loved a good laugh. Surely a little humor could alleviate things?

With a sincere but nervous chuckle, Yonny squeezed Dingo’s wrists before letting them go. “Oh, Dingo.” Waving his hand, Yonny gave him a slanted smirk and flashed his brows. “Don’t worry about it. She sounds way too good for me.”

It should have been a safe, silly, self-deprecating sentiment. The kind he or Dingo would share about themselves at points, which the other would jokingly go along with for five seconds before telling the first guy he’s being silly. Then they would laugh it off, move on to other topics, and everything would be fine. That’s how it usually went.

But today, Dingo’s eyes burned with barely-restrained fury. “Are you kidding me?”

Yonny flinched. He opened his mouth, ready to tell Dingo that it was indeed intended as a joke, and that he was just trying to make Dingo feel better, and wow, that failed, didn’t it? Maybe Yonny could turtle up and live as a hermit for the rest of his days. Maybe that would help.

But before he could interject, Dingo grabbed Yonny by the shoulders and looked him dead in the eye. “Do you have any idea how lucky your soulmate is?”

Dazed and whiplashed, Yonny barely found the wherewithal to stutter. “E-excuse me?”

“Oh, blimey, Yon.” Dingo ran a hand through his own hair, pushing it out of his eyes with a disbelieving huff. “You’re so cool. You know all sorts of things about… all sorts of things? Like, I’ll wonder how slides make you go fast and you tell me all the physics about how it’s gravity and angles and stuff, and that’s amazing. Plus, you know how to use your know-how! You blew up your chemistry class because you felt like seeing purple smoke!”

Yonny, who was already flushed from feeling flattered, felt his cheeks warm even further. He hadn’t quite told Dingo the full story on that one. “Eheheh, well, I mean—.”

“And that’s all because you’re passionate!” Dingo continued, unperturbed. “About old books, lock-picking, radioactive goo, all the freaky biology facts forever — and so on! And you don’t let people make you drop those things when they call it weird like stupid, judgy idiots.” Dingo took a sharp breath. “That takes courage, Yon. Real courage.”

Yonny swallowed. Something trembled in his chest. “Dingo….”

“And you’re creative at solving problems! You care about things being fair! You’re always fun to talk with, walk with — whatever with! You tell jokes that are funny and scary! And, you know, when you do silly pranks or make me a ‘test subject’ — whatever that means — it’s worth it to watch you honest-to-Ohri enjoy yourself.” Dingo swallowed. “And it’s even more worth it when you laugh. That’s a rush. Just like when you smile at me or hug me.”

The breath left Yonny’s body. “You mean that?” As the tremors in his chest intensified, so too did Dingo look for all the world like he was a bomb about to blow.

“Yeah! And I told myself I wanted to see you happy as much as possible. But on Saturday I crushed your hopes, and I upset you, and I pushed you, and now I guess I won’t even be happy for you when you find your soulmate! I’m awful, Yon! I suck! I’m a horrible friend!”

As soon as that last, terrible proclamation escaped Dingo’s mouth, Yonny tugged him into another hug, curling around his friend and holding him close as the branch swayed under their combined weight. Dingo wasn’t so much sobbing as outright bawling, and he clung to Yonny’s shirt as if it were a lifeline. The sound was muffled as Dingo cried, open-mouthed, against Yonny’s sweater; the vague part of Yonny’s mind still aware of the outside world recognized that, thanks to this, they were less likely to garner unwanted eyes. Still, as Yonny felt Dingo’s wails resonate with the quaking of his own heart, he wanted to burst under the absolute landslide of unexpected praise Dingo just heaped on him.

But before he could do that, he wouldn’t let Dingo think this about himself. Yonny refused.

“Di.” The nickname bloomed, effortless, as Yonny ran his fingers through Dingo’s shaggy hair. “If you were really a bad friend… I think you wouldn’t care about my feelings being hurt. And I doubt you’d tell me everything you liked about me all at once like that.” Yonny felt his throat constrict a little. “Do you realize how happy that makes me?”

Dingo shuddered, snouting down towards Yonny’s stomach, sobs hitching at his words as he spoke. “W-well, okay, maybe— but I— I— I still got mad at your— your soulmate for just existing.” He curled impossibly closer. “Who does that?”

Yonny frowned, continuing to pet Dingo’s head and upper back. “That was a dream, though. You know I haven’t met my soulmate yet. At least, not properly. So you did nothing wrong.”

“But what if—?”

“Di.” Yonny took a deep breath after cutting him off. “I can call you that, right?”

A fidget. Dingo pulled back and rubbed his eyes, giving Yonny a nod. “Mm-hmm.”

“Thanks.” With a soft smile, Yonny pulled his hands back forward and held Dingo’s, giving them a light squeeze. “Look. I can promise you that nightmare will never come true. Do you know why?”

Dingo shook his head.

“Because, no matter who my soulmate is or what they end up being like, no one could take your place.” With his free hand, Yonny cupped Dingo’s cheek again, brushing some stray hairs out of his face and wiping aside some tears. “If someone keeps us apart, even by accident, then there’s no possible way they could be my soulmate. The soulmate bond is supposed to be an Ohrian’s best match for a life partner, right?”

Ears perking, Dingo nodded once more. His dull eyes had gained some of their light back, which made Yonny’s whole body relax with incredible relief.

Smile broadening, Yonny continued with bright, exaggerated flair. “So then the powers that be will know that I’d shrivel up and die without spending time with the strongest, fastest, bravest….”

Dingo wriggled on the branch, lips curling in a shaky grin. “Yooooon!”

“—Coolest, funniest—”

“Yonny!” Dingo hid his face behind his hands, ears wiggling.

“—Most handsome—!”

For the second time in only a few-day period, Dingo shoved Yonny. But this time, there was no freight behind it; just a friendly push, not at all threatening Yonny’s tenuous balance in the boughs of the tree, as Dingo broke out into a warm, real laugh. “Okay, okay, I get it!”

“Do you, now?” Yonny cooed, brows flashing.

Dingo rolled his eyes but nonetheless beamed. “Maybe I don’t see it, but you know what? I’m glad you do.”

“Don’t see it, you say? Well, perhaps I have an explanation for that.” Yonny hummed, airy and flippant, as he moved his hand to play with the undersides of Dingo’s bangs. “Your hair got in the way again, you silly space-goose!”

Dingo laughed. “Oh nooooo! You cracked the code!” Pretending to faint, he flopped his back against the tree trunk, emitting a gurgle with a cursory resemblance to a death rattle.

Yonny burst out into a fit of giggles. There he is, he thought, heart warming at the sight of his friend enjoying himself. There’s the Dingo I adore.

“Call my mum,” croaked Dingo, caught up in his dramatics. “I don’t know if I’ll make it.”

“Now, now, don’t die on me yet. I believe I have a solution to this conundrum.” With a flourish, Yonny snapped his fingers and pointed downwards. “Bow your head for a second.”

Evidently no longer on death’s door, Dingo’s fluffy brows shot up. He adjusted himself on the bough, rustling some leaves as he did so. “You trying to give me vertigo, Yon?”

“Nope. Keep your eyes closed, if you must. Trust me on this.”

That reassurance seemed to be enough for Dingo, whose ears perked and eyes closed. Setting his palms on the branch, he bowed, and the moment he did, Yonny began undoing his own ponytail. He watched Dingo’s ears swivel with obvious curiosity as Yonny unfurled the long blue headband he always used to help tame his hair; normal ties never worked as well for his thick, abundant curls. Now loose, they spilled in front of Yonny’s forehead and around the sides of his face, but he had a more important matter to tend to.

“In honor of you being such a cool friend,” Yonny said, putting on a faux-monarch voice as he stretched the headband out, “I hereby bestow upon thee the gift of unhindered sight.” Yonny felt Dingo try not to giggle as he pushed up Dingo’s hair with both the headband and swift, gentle precision, removing a few leaves in the process. “May the symbolism of your bangs never blocking your vision represent you never doubting your own greatness again.”

Once he was satisfied with his work, Yonny lifted his hand in a hammy gesture. “Rise, dear companion, and revel in your clear line of sight!”

Dingo’s snickering intensified. “Good grief. You’re such a goof.” Nonetheless, he lifted his head, and Yonny instantly got a better look at him. What once were bangs now spiked up atop Dingo’s head in a bright, stunning display. In a sense, this wasn’t a surprise — in fact, this appearance adjustment was the logical progression of Yonny’s actions — but somehow, Yonny was unprepared for just how this sight would hit him. Dingo already looked cool with his hair down, but like this, it reminded Yonny of Ohri’s sun cropping up over the horizon, ready to spread its warmth across a new day. Or the mane of a space-lion, proud and noble and grand, a powerful sovereign of nature.

Or the flames of a campfire, betrayed a whispered thought.

Yonny’s heart got tied in his throat. He felt like he couldn’t breathe.

His reverie could have lasted anywhere from a second to an hour, as far as he could tell. It took Dingo speaking up for Yonny to return to reality, realizing that his friend had been staring back at him that whole time in a dumbfounded stupor.

“Uh. You….” Dingo gestured at Yonny as if it somehow demonstrated what was on his mind.

Not sure if he wanted Dingo to finish his thought or not, Yonny swallowed his hopeless, traitorous heart and put on a smile, expression walking the fine line between real and fake. “You look wonderful with your hair up,” Yonny finished, deflecting Dingo with an earnest compliment.

Dingo puffed his chest, let out a sigh (which somehow seemed relieved), and grinned. “Cool.” He flashed Yonny a wink. “You look good with yours down!”

Yonny’s cheeks turned pink. All at once, his smile turned broad and giddy, the warm wiggles in his chest eclipsing his somber thoughts. He opened his mouth to thank his friend….

…Just as the bell rang: a five-minute warning for students to return to class. Both boys jolted lightly from where they sat on their bough.

Yonny blinked, sobered by the realization that recess was almost over. He shuffled on the branch, feeling it sway a bit as he peered beneath them. “Ah. Speaking of ‘down,’ I’ve never climbed out of a tree before, either. Could you help me out with that?”

Dingo’s face went white. He gulped, then chuckled, giving Yonny a grin so bashful and embarrassed, Yonny could almost feel his shame.

Yonny’s brows rose. “Di?”

“Well, about that….”