Work Text:
[ 11:07 PM | Chat: Wifies ]
Parrot
what if i told u i almost spilled tea on a duke today
Wifies
Then I’d say it was about time someone did.
Did he deserve it?
Parrot
he said i looked "regally distressed"
like sir. i’m just trying to exist
Wifies
So he saw you struggling and thought it was a fashion choice.
Sounds about right.
But yes, assault via teacup sounds very you.
Parrot
u say that like it’s not a compliment
Wifies
It wasn’t.
Maybe half of one. The chaotic half.
Parrot
chaos is sexy tho. that’s why ur still texting me
Wifies
Wrong. I’m texting you because I couldn’t sleep and needed something worse than caffeine.
Congratulations. You won.
Parrot
flattered.
wanna get actual caffeine tomorrow?
i promise not to monologue unless provoked
Wifies
What happened to “I don’t do mornings”?
Parrot
first of all. how dare you
second of all, it’s afternoon
4 pm. that place w/ the overenthusiastic fern in the window
Wifies
Oh right. The one where you had a crisis over a cookie being “too soft.”
Parrot
i stand by that
cookies should have structure. like people. like friendships
like whatever this thing is between us
Wifies
This “thing” is you being allergic to boundaries and me being too tired to enforce them.
Parrot
so like a friendship. but flirty. but also with caffeine dependency
Wifies
And trauma. Don’t forget the trauma.
Parrot
of course not. i’m bringing all of mine in a little to-go cup
Wifies
Then I’ll bring an umbrella and a list of reasons why you’re unbearable.
Parrot
it better be laminated.
also do you want the seat by the window or are u gonna pretend u hate natural light again
Wifies
I’m letting you pick, obviously. You like pretending you’re in a sad indie movie when it rains.
Parrot
and u like pretending ur not charmed by it
Wifies
You’re lucky I’m too sleepy to fire back properly.
Parrot
nah. i’m lucky u said yes to coffee.
Wifies
...
Shut up. Go to sleep.
Parrot
only if u promise to show up tomorrow and look mildly interested in my life
Wifies
Fine. But only if your coat matches your emotional instability.
Parrot
it always does.
also before i go, be honest
how many times have u imagined pushing me down a staircase today
Wifies
Only once.
And it was more of a gentle shove. With love.
Sort of.
Parrot
so thoughtful.
you always know how to make a guy feel almost safe
Wifies
It’s my gift.
I read people for a living, remember?
You walk like someone who argues with mirrors.
Parrot
they start it first.
but okay profiler, what does my coffee order say about me?
Wifies
Parrot X. Two, Elmswood's number one people-pleaser.
Orders something complicated, secretly just wants plain black but needs attention from the barista.
Parrot
rude
accurate
but rude
Wifies
You’re welcome.
What does my order say?
Parrot
u get something boring and judge me for existing
also u sip it like you’re analyzing the barista’s childhood
Wifies
It’s not judgment.
It’s observation.
And the barista had deep-rooted father issues, I was right.
Parrot
i knew u were scary when u guessed my star sign correctly and then roasted it for 10 minutes
Wifies
You’re a Cancer. That wasn’t hard.
The red flags waved themselves.
Parrot
and yet
u still agreed to coffee with me tomorrow
Wifies
I’m making peace with my poor life choices.
Parrot
no take backs
i’m already planning our dramatic coffee shop reunion
rain, longing stares, me being irresistible—
Wifies
Bold of you to assume I’ll even make eye contact.
Parrot
u will
you always look at me when you’re trying not to smile
Wifies
... You’re ridiculous.
Parrot
yeah. but i’m your ridiculous. for at least one overpriced latte
Wifies
I hate how charming you think you are.
Parrot
not think. know
now we should go to sleep before i say something genuinely sweet and ruin our whole dynamic
Wifies
You wouldn’t dare.
Parrot
test me
night, wifies
Wifies
Goodnight, walking fire hazard.
Rain falls lightly over the city — not a storm, just a quiet drizzle that makes the pavement shine and the air smell clean. It softens the corners of everything: neon signs, distant footsteps, the rhythm of passing cars. Nothing is in a rush. The whole city exhales in grayscale.
Parrot steps out of a taxi — not a limo, not even a town car, just a plain yellow cab with cracked leather seats and a meter that blinked too fast. The kind of ride where you don’t say much. The driver barely glances at him. Parrot murmurs a “thanks,” too soft for the rain to notice, and closes the door with a muted click.
He opens his black umbrella — slow, deliberate, like he’s folding something into place. It tilts just a little too far forward, shading his face. His other hand adjusts the scarf at his throat — light grey, frayed at the ends, wrapped loose like he wasn’t really paying attention. The gesture is half-conscious, fingers smoothing fabric without urgency.
His wings shift against his back — aqua blue and marigold, feathered arches tucked neatly under the dark lines of his suit. They don’t move much, but there’s tension there, like a breath he hasn’t let out. Smaller plumes of slight green, with the color of sunset and ocean that's way brighter in hue, peek from above his ears. They twitch when the wind nudges him.
His golden-brown hair is unruly in the kind of way that looks accidental but isn’t — strands that curl slightly from rain and habit, falling across his forehead in soft, uneven lengths. He doesn’t fix it.
His suit is modern, tailored, sharp in silhouette but unbothered in posture — shoulders relaxed, spine slightly curved as he walks. He has a pale brown coat along with it. Though, no briefcase. Just the scarf, the umbrella, and the quiet presence of someone who’s too tired to look important.
A glint of metal catches at his hip — a small, antique spyglass, its brass frame dulled by time, clipped to a slender leather strap. It sways gently with each step, the kind of item that feels like it belongs to another century. He isn’t using it. But it’s always with him.
His watch reads 3:56 PM.
He crosses the sidewalk with care, footfalls muffled against the slick stone. Each step is deliberate — not heavy, but thoughtful, like he’s not quite convinced he wants to arrive. The café is small, tucked between a closed bookstore and a flower shop with peeling paint. Its doorframe leans slightly left.
He pushes open the door with a palm — the bell above jingles once, off-key. The sound is lopsided, like the bell gave up trying to be charming years ago.
Inside, the warmth is subtle but immediate. Dim amber bulbs hang above mismatched tables. The floor creaks under his shoes — not loud, just honest. A couple of people glance up, then away. No one stares.
Parrot closes the umbrella with a soft shake, water droplets flicking to the worn rug near the door. He leaves it in the stand, fingers brushing off the handle like he’s letting go of something heavier.
He walks toward the back without hesitation — past the counter where pastries sit behind tired glass, past the woman reading a magazine from three seasons ago. The booth he chooses is the same as always: second-to-last, back left, near the window but not right up against it. Safe. Half-lit. Quiet.
He sits slowly. Doesn’t slump, doesn’t sprawl — just places himself there, like he’s setting a piece on a board. His back touches the seat with care. His knees angle slightly in. His wings fold a little tighter. He adjusts the scarf again. Pulls at the cuff of one sleeve. Then lets his hands rest, finally, on the table’s edge — palms down, fingers slightly spread.
One eye is aqua — pale, seawater clear. The other, gold like the sun. Heterochromia. Distinct. Striking. But just now, both eyes look… quiet. Dimmed. As if watching something far away.
He orders a cortado when the server pauses near him — his voice low, smooth, not cold but too soft to linger. He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t need to. They remember him.
When the coffee arrives, he doesn’t drink. Just cradles it between his hands like it’s something to hold rather than consume. Steam curls gently upward. His fingers flex once against the ceramic. Then go still again.
From his coat, he pulls a folded program. Gala itinerary. Cream paper, edges creased. He flattens it on the table with careful thumbs. Not smoothing it — more like making sure it stays where it belongs. Black ink lines the margins. His handwriting — small, fast, exact. Checkmarks. Scribbled times. One name circled. Twice.
He reads it for a moment. Eyes flicking from line to line, then going unfocused again. The paper stays open, untouched.
A minute passes.
Then another.
Outside, the city keeps moving — but not urgently. Just... forward. The kind of afternoon that feels suspended in a breath.
Parrot exhales.
The feathers above his ears twitch again — subtle, restless. He shifts, just barely, gaze sliding toward the door. Then back to the rain-soaked window.
His hand reaches to adjust the scarf again — a habit, not a need.
He checks his watch.
3:59 PM.
Still early. Barely. But Wifies does have a reputation.
And in that pause between seconds, Parrot finds a strange comfort in the wait. Not because he’s patient. But because quiet is a rarer thing than answers. And right now, he’s grateful for it.
Just a little longer.
..
The café is called Third Feather. The sign above the door is hand-painted — the kind of cursive that looks like it came from a brush instead of a font. The “F” in Feather curls into a shape almost like a wing, though the paint has begun to flake, exposing the wood beneath. No one really calls it by name anymore. Locals just say, "the one next to the flower shop with the tulips that never die."
Inside, the aesthetic walks a line between deliberate charm and accidental comfort. Warm light filters through hanging bulbs in repurposed mason jars, casting soft halos on the chipped walls. Everything is mismatched — chairs from different decades, tables with uneven legs, curtains that don’t quite match but belong together anyway. There’s a bulletin board near the register, cluttered with curling flyers and polaroids yellowed with age.
A radio behind the counter plays old jazz — not loud enough to demand attention, just loud enough to fill the spaces between footsteps and coffee sips. The kind of music that makes you feel like you’ve stepped into someone else’s memory.
Parrot doesn’t smile, but his shoulders loosen just a fraction. The air smells like espresso, lemon zest, and a hint of something floral — maybe whatever the barista keeps behind the counter in that chipped vase.
He finally takes a sip from the coffee cup the waiter has long since given him, while he was distracted.
The cortado is warm, dense, not too bitter. The kind of drink that doesn’t try too hard. Parrot exhales through his nose. It’s not relief. Not comfort. Just... acknowledgment. That this is real. That he’s here.
His fingers linger on the ceramic rim of the mug. Then drift — tracing the grain of the table, lifting slightly at a splinter that’s been sanded down over time. His wings shift again, slowly. A breath of movement. His eyes flick up.
There’s a couple by the window, both in quiet conversation, one tapping at a laptop. The woman with the magazine still hasn’t turned the page. The server is restocking sugar packets with the air of someone performing a ritual. Everything moves — but in loops. Not cycles of urgency, but ones of habit.
Parrot watches.
It’s what he’s always done.
There’s a painting on the far wall — a forest scene, blurred at the edges, all green and gold. It’s framed too nicely for a place like this, which makes him think it’s a donation. Or a secret. Maybe both.
He glances at the door.
Not yet.
His watch says 4:05 PM. The second hand stutters once, then ticks forward. A delay, then obedience.
His fingers go back to the program on the table. One more name. Still circled. Still waiting.
A drop of water slides from the end of his scarf, soaking into the paper’s corner. He presses it flat with the side of his palm. It doesn’t really matter.
Outside, someone passes with a red umbrella. It opens and closes in the reflection on the glass. Parrot tilts his head to follow it, but only slightly. More instinct than interest.
He takes another sip.
Fidgets again — pulls the cuff of his sleeve down, then taps once against the tabletop with his ring finger. Tap. Tap. Stop.
From the booth behind him, someone laughs — short, genuine, already fading. Parrot’s ears twitch toward the sound, but his expression doesn’t change.
He lets his hand rest on the table again. Palm down. Fingers relaxed.
The mug of coffee is nearly empty now, and he hasn’t noticed.
His gaze drifts to the café’s door once more — longer this time. Like it might open. Like he’s not quite sure whether he wants it to.
But all that meets him is the softened outline of the street beyond — shining pavement, blinking headlights, the hush of a city not quite asleep.
The quiet holds.
So Parrot waits.
Because sometimes, the moment before matters more than the moment itself.
And right now, this is the moment before.
The bell above the café door let out a metallic chime — sharp, not charming. Less “welcome in,” more “don’t mess around.”
Parrot didn’t look up right away. His fingers pressed at a loose thread on the edge of his scarf, flattening it against the wool like he could iron out the static in his chest. One breath. Quiet. Then he looked.
Wifies stood in the doorway like he was carved out of weather. Rain clung to him — dark strands of hair dripping at the ends, jacket slick and shadowy with water, bandana knocked slightly askew. The overhead light caught on the silver square at its center, tipping sideways like a fallen crown. His clothes were layered — storm-dark jacket over a navy pullover, sleeves tugged long to the base of his thumbs, silver zippers gleaming faintly with each move. Around his neck, a black cord necklace rested, and at the center: a yin-yang charm, worn smooth at the edges.
He looked cinematic, unfortunately. Annoyingly. Like he’d walked straight out of an arthouse film that ended in silence and regret.
Parrot scowled before he smiled. “You look like a villain from a tragic noir reboot,” he said, dry. “All damp menace and unresolved issues.”
Wifies blinked once. Then walked in like the comment didn’t need an answer. He tugged off his jacket, gave it a half-hearted shake, and draped it over the booth before sliding in across from him — calm, unhurried. The smell of rain, cold metal, and cinnamon followed, softened by something warmer underneath. Burnt sugar, maybe. Or clove.
He didn’t say anything yet. Just leaned back, eyes scanning the café — wood counters, brass light fixtures, the chipped napkin holder between them. He was good at that: noticing everything and giving nothing.
Parrot raised an eyebrow. “What, you scope every café like it’s a crime scene?”
“Old habits,” Wifies muttered. “Also, you picked a place that looks like a time capsule from 1973.”
“That’s called ambiance, bro.”
“That’s called ‘this place probably has ghosts.’”
Parrot sipped his tea — pinkie lifted slightly like a threat. “At least the ghosts show up on time.”
Wifies checked his watch. “It’s four twenty-three.”
“Which is twenty-three minutes into ‘I told you four.’”
“Let the record show,” Wifies said, voice flat, “I came through rain and the weird side street detour for this.”
“You want a medal?”
“I want dry socks.”
Parrot glanced down. Wifies’ boots were damp at the seams, pant legs soaked up to the calf. Left sock: black with a stripe. Right: navy with stars.
“You ever try adulting?” Parrot asked, nodding at the mismatched socks.
“You ever try not noticing everything like a detail freak?”
“It’s called pattern recognition,” Parrot said. His mouth twitched.
Wifies didn’t respond. Just leaned forward, forearms resting on the table, fingers drumming lightly against the side of his mug, that Parrot ordered long ago along with his new tea. The motion drew Parrot’s eye to the new bracelet on his wrist — a thin band of dark purple thread, hand-woven, knotted simply. Looked like it shouldn’t suit him. It did.
Parrot tugged at his scarf again — not for warmth. Just something to do with his hands. It was light grey, frayed at the edges, wrapped loose like he hadn’t thought too hard about it. His coat — pale brown wool — was draped over the back of his chair. His suit underneath was tailored but easy; dark, sharp in silhouette, but worn like he wasn’t trying to impress anyone. A soft glint of brass swung gently at his hip again — the small antique spyglass clipped to a leather strap. Decorative, mostly. But always with him. Like a prized possession.
His golden-brown hair curled faintly from the rain, strands falling in loose, deliberate disorder. He didn’t fix it. He didn't need to. The wings at his back were folded tight, regal, though the smaller plumes near his temples twitched when the wind outside nudged the door. They always gave him away.
“You’re staring,” Wifies said suddenly. Not accusing. Just observing.
Parrot didn’t look away fast enough. “I’m diagnosing you with poor layering choices.”
Wifies smirked — just barely. “Careful, you’re one lingering glance away from writing poetry about me.”
“I’d rather write a crime report.”
“Still a love letter, if you think about it.”
Parrot’s wings twitched again. A little sharper, that time.
The café lights flickered gently as the sky outside dimmed, throwing amber-gold lines across their table. Parrot’s tea had gone cold. He hadn’t noticed.
“...You alright?” Wifies asked at last. Quieter now. Less banter. More real.
Parrot met his gaze — aqua and gold eyes pinning him for a second too long. Then: “Yeah,” he said. Not dismissive, but not wide open either. “Just… forgot how loud your presence is.”
Wifies tilted his head slightly.
“You walk in bro, and it’s just—boom. Cinematic disruption. Atmospheric shift. Brooding soundtrack. Main character energy.”
Wifies let out a short breath — reluctant amusement. “And you’re the one with wings.”
“Which you still haven’t complimented, by the way.”
“Do you want me to?”
“No,” Parrot said — then, softer: “...Maybe.”
“They’re quite nice,” Wifies said, eventually. “Symmetrical. Good structure. Kind of elegant in that anxious bird way.”
Parrot made a face that couldn’t decide if it was a smile or a scoff. “You’re terrible at compliments.”
“You love it.”
“Shut up.”
Wifies didn’t shut up.
He leaned forward instead, slow and unhurried, like a predator who already knew the end of the conversation. The café’s amber light caught on the edge of his damp jacket — rain still clung to the seams, darkening the fabric where it hadn’t yet dried. A few drops slid from the ends of his hair, trailing along the curve of his jaw before disappearing into the collar of his shirt.
He ran a hand through his hair — short, dark, tousled from the weather — pushing it back with the kind of ease that suggested he didn’t care how it looked, even though it landed perfectly askew. A few strands still clung to his forehead, catching on his skin. His fingers lingered at the nape of his neck for a beat longer than necessary, like he was grounding himself.
Then he reached out and wrapped that same hand around the second mug — the coffee Parrot had ordered alongside his own tea, almost like a dare.
The steam curled between them, fogging the space above the table. His silver ring clicked softly against the ceramic, a delicate sound barely audible beneath the café’s low murmur. Wifies’ grip wasn’t possessive, but it was decisive — thumb pressed firm against the handle, fingers curling slow around the heat like he was claiming something unspoken.
He took a sip.
And as he drank, his eyes never left Parrot’s. Not sharp, not mocking — just watching. Like he was waiting to see if Parrot would stop him. Or notice. Or react at all.
Parrot’s shoulders barely shifted. A tight breath held itself in his chest. His wings — the two main ones folded tightly down his back, the smaller auxiliary pair curled half-in — gave a subtle, involuntary twitch. He smoothed a hand down the front of his coat, once, twice, then found himself gripping the edge of the table like it might steady him. His tea, untouched, is colder than ever now.
“You said yesterday night you’d bring an umbrella,” Parrot said, quieter now. His voice barely reached over the whispering hiss of the espresso machine.
Wifies blinked once, then smiled with the corners of his mouth only. “I did.”
Parrot’s gaze dropped to the rain-soaked collar of Wifies’ jacket. “Where is it, then?”
“Didn’t say I’d use it.”
“You’re—” Parrot exhaled, almost a laugh, but sharper. “You’re insufferable.”
Wifies leaned back slightly, stretching one leg out under the table until his boot bumped against Parrot’s. He didn’t move it. Just let it stay there, a quiet pressure.
“And yet,” he said, “here we are.”
Parrot’s jaw twitched. He shifted, but not away. The touch of Wifies’ boot had rooted him somehow — not frozen, but anchored. Like leaving it there meant something neither of them wanted to say out loud.
“You always do that,” Parrot said finally, voice low, words measured. “Walk through storms like they can’t touch you. Then show up acting like you’re the one who got stood up.”
Wifies didn’t answer at first. He slid the mug back a few inches, then rested his forearms on the table, palms open. His ring caught the light again, silver gleaming against damp skin. He flexed his fingers once. Then twice.
“And you always act like planning for every outcome will keep you from being disappointed,” he said.
Parrot didn’t move. But his wings did — a slow spread and close, like a sigh too big for lungs. One feather slipped out of line; he reached back and straightened it without thinking, fingers brushing the edge of his scapula with unconscious precision.
“You gonna psychoanalyze me next?” he murmured.
“Already did,” Wifies replied. He tilted his head, studying him like a gallery piece. “Your file says: tightly coiled disaster with a martyr complex and five backup plans.”
Parrot didn’t look at him. He was watching the tea instead, as if the surface might ripple with answers. One hand hovered near the cup, but never touched it.
“You’re not funny.”
“You’re not subtle.”
Parrot’s mouth opened like he had a retort — then closed again. A moment later, he reached up and tugged at the edge of his scarf, smoothing it flat across his chest. His fingers hesitated there, tangled in the soft fabric, working a crease out that didn’t exist.
“You smell like burnt sugar,” he said softly. “Or, maybe, it's the shop.”
Wifies tilted his head again. A quiet blink. “Cataloging my scent now?”
Parrot didn’t look at him. “I catalog everything. You just... stick.”
That landed harder than either of them meant it to. Parrot’s fingers stilled completely. Wifies didn’t respond right away — not in words. His expression didn’t change, but his breathing did. Just slightly shallower. Just a little too careful.
He sat forward again, arms crossed now. The wet fabric of his jacket creaked faintly. His ring tapped once against the wood — rhythmic, deliberate, then gone.
“You didn’t tell me what this is,” he said at last, voice even.
Parrot didn’t move at first. Then, slowly, he unwrapped the scarf from around his throat — each loop undone with careful, precise motions, like it was a ritual. The fabric slid through his fingers, soft and silent. He folded it once in his lap. Then again.
“I didn’t know what it was,” he said, eyes finally lifting to meet Wifies’. “Just that I wanted you here. Before everything starts.”
Wifies watched him for a beat longer, face unreadable.
Then he softened. Only barely.
“I’m here,” he said. “You know that, right?”
Parrot nodded. But not right away.
His gaze drifted, down to the half-finished tea, then back up to Wifies’ soaked sleeves. He leaned forward, elbows on the table now, mimicking the posture from earlier like it gave them neutral ground.
“You drank my coffee,” he said, voice quieter again.
“You ordered tea,” Wifies replied. “That’s grounds for confiscation.”
“It was lavender oolong, you savage.”
“Exactly.”
They didn’t smile. Not really. But something in the air loosened — only slightly. Like the pressure had dipped just enough to breathe again.
Outside, the rain kept at it — softer now, a slow, steady cadence against the glass. The café had emptied. Someone dimmed the lights, just enough for the golden glow of the pendant around Wifies’ neck to catch the low light.
Neither of them moved to leave.
And neither of them wanted to.
Not yet.
Parrot exhaled.
“I don’t know what I’m doing,” he muttered, voice low. “Lately. It’s like everything’s running and I’m not keeping up. Like I’m pretending to hold a leash on a dog that’s already halfway down the street.”
He paused. The words sat there, unfinished — a loose thread hanging off a frayed sleeve. He rubbed a hand over the back of his neck, slow and tense. The gesture looked practiced, like someone used to disguising panic as thoughtfulness. His wings twitched behind him again, this time more violently. The larger set flared just slightly before pulling back tight to his shoulders, ruffled and reactive. One feather floated down, silent and unnoticed, landing beside his boot like punctuation.
He tried to laugh, but it came out more like breath catching. “I’ve got folders stacked to my chin, protocols I’m rewriting on the fly, half the Circle breathing down my neck about gala logistics, and Ro asking if I’ve reinforced the storm doors in case of a siege — like it’s war prep, not a party. And every time I turn around, someone’s asking where Minute is, or when the caterers can come back, or if the East Wing needs fumigating or some bullshit. And through all of it, I’m just—”
His voice cracked. Just faintly. Enough to flinch at it. He bit down on the rest and pressed his thumb against the rim of his mug, dragging it slowly along the edge. It left no sound, but the motion was anxious. Restless.
“I don’t know,” he said, more quietly. “I feel like I used to have my hands on everything. Every door, every detail, every call before it rang. Now I’m just... showing up late to my own life. With a clipboard and a half-written checklist.”
His fingers tightened around the mug until the ceramic creaked.
“I can’t breathe in that place lately. I know it better than anyone and somehow it feels like I’m... like I’m trespassing. Like I walk the halls and they’re watching me, but not because I’m in charge — because I’m next. Or wrong. Or...”
He trailed off again. His grip loosened just enough that the handle of the cup slipped a little in his hand. He didn’t fix it.
Across from him, Wifies still hadn’t spoken. Not immediately. He just watched him. Elbows on the table. Shoulders low. Posture casual in the same way a storm cloud is casual — quiet, but undeniable. His expression didn’t shift, but his gaze was too focused to be indifferent.
Then he tapped the side of his mug — ring hitting ceramic in three soft knocks. Measured. Intentional. The sound echoed just enough in the hush of the near-empty café to make Parrot blink.
Then, calmly — but not cold:
“Then stop pretending,” Wifies said. “Let it run.”
Parrot looked at him like he’d spoken in code.
His lips parted like he wanted to argue — and didn’t have the energy to follow through. He stared down into the tea, as if it might offer a better answer than the one he was hearing. His throat bobbed once in a silent swallow.
“You ever just say things like that and assume you sound wise?”
“Constantly,” Wifies replied — but there was no smirk this time, not yet. He shifted forward slightly, the edge of concern peeking through the even tone. “But I mean it. You’re trying so hard to keep everything tidy — to fix what’s already unraveling like you’re not fraying at the same seams. At some point… you gotta let it go a little. Let things get messy. People’ll still show up. The world doesn’t vanish just because you drop the leash.”
He let the silence hang for a beat, then added, softer:
“You don’t have to carry the whole damn show by yourself, Parrot. Especially not while pretending the spotlight’s not burning you out.”
Parrot huffed — a breathy, exhausted laugh that didn’t quite lift the heaviness around him. He dragged a hand down his face, fingers pressing into his brow like he could physically force the thoughts out. Then he let his arm drop, boneless, back into his lap. His other hand still held the mug, untouched. Maybe even forgotten.
“Thanks, I guess.” He replied, “But you're exhausting sometimes.”
“You’re the one spiraling in a scarf at a café, bro.”
“Fair.”
The booth creaked quietly as Wifies leaned back, letting his spine settle against the worn cushion. His jacket shifted with him — black corduroy catching the golden light in soft, fuzzy lines. His arm slid along the side of the booth, fingers curling over the wood trim. Under the table, his foot stretched out, leg extending just far enough that the toe of his boot hovered close to Parrot’s — not touching, but near enough to feel the proximity.
Not on purpose.
Probably.
Parrot lowered his gaze again, lashes casting faint shadows on the skin beneath his eyes. His scarf had come loose — the ends drooping over his knees in disarray. One hand reached to adjust it, paused, and then just rested there, fingers curled in the fabric like it was an anchor.
“You always smell like—something,” he murmured, unfocused. “Not cinnamon. Something sharper. Like... clean linen and static and, I don’t know. Lightning?”
Wifies blinked. “That’s the most deranged compliment I’ve ever gotten.”
“Yeah, well. You’re the one who smells like bottled weather.”
“It’s my cologne. Limited edition. ‘Freshly Electrocuted.’”
Parrot let out a noise that might’ve been a snort. “Sounds fake.”
“I’ll bring the label next time.”
“You won’t.”
“I might.”
Wifies’ tone was still even. But his gaze had softened in the way only people who had learned how to listen without interrupting could manage. He watched Parrot like someone who could hear all the things he wasn’t saying — who understood that some silences came pre-loaded with entire spirals, and didn’t need more words to be real.
He didn’t fill the space.
He just stayed.
The hum of the espresso machine in the back had gone quiet. A barista moved like a shadow near the counter, stacking cups and mugs with practiced indifference. Outside, the rain had slowed to a steady murmur, brushing the glass with the rhythm of someone absentmindedly drumming fingers on a desk.
Inside, the café was quiet enough to hear the tick of a clock mounted above the pastry case.
They sat again in that stretch of almost-silence, the kind that felt more like held breath than stillness. Neither moved to leave. Neither checked the time. The pendant around Wifies’ neck caught the low light — a crescent moon against his skin, barely shifting when he breathed.
“Your birthday’s next month,” Wifies said, voice calm.
Parrot’s head tilted, hair falling into his eyes. “Yeah.”
“I’ll get you something useless.”
“You always do.”
“Maybe I’ll get you one of those mugs that changes color when it’s warm. So you can watch something else break down slowly for once.”
Parrot snorted — for real this time. “That was dark.”
“You like dark.”
“I like tea.”
“Same thing.”
They didn’t move. Didn’t say goodbye.
Just let the steam curl upward between them, soft and ghostly. Let the edges of their drinks go cold. Let the closeness stretch out like a string neither of them wanted to cut.
Their knees didn’t quite touch. But they could have.
And neither pulled away.
They were just friends.
Totally.
Probably.
Maybe.
Wifies stirred his coffee again, slow and absent, the spoon tapping gently against the porcelain like it didn’t want to be heard. The movement was rhythmic but distracted — a nervous loop, hiding inside the mundane. The booth around them felt even smaller now — not in size, but in gravity, like the air had thickened, folding in on itself.
The café buzzed in distant layers — soft laughter from the corner table near the window, silverware clinking like wind chimes behind the counter, the barista’s chipper voice slicing briefly through the low hum: a name, a smile, the kind of normal that didn’t belong here. Outside, rain curled against the glass in wavering rivers. But in their little corner of stillness, time was slow, syrup-thick.
Parrot hadn’t touched his tea for a long time now. It sat in front of him, steam rising in gentle spirals long gone. He watched his tea too intently, like he was waiting for a message to appear in the surface. His fingers hovered just off the mug, not quite holding it. They tapped a slow, almost imperceptible rhythm against the ceramic — not out of impatience, but like a metronome for his thoughts. A silent tether.
“You’re doing that thing,” Wifies said, his voice lower now. Softer. The edges sanded down, like he didn’t want to break whatever fragile thread held this moment together.
Parrot’s gaze didn’t leave the cup. “Which thing?”
“That thing where you pretend you’re not spiraling, but your wings start to tense up like they’re bracing for impact.”
The flinch was barely there — a minute shift in his spine, a pause in the tapping. His shoulders dipped just slightly, and his wings — those sleek, dark things usually pinned with precision — pulled in an inch too tight. Not enough for most to notice. Just enough for someone who knew.
“They’re fine,” he muttered, eyes flicking to the rain-slicked window. But his fingers wrapped around the mug a little too deliberately now. Like he needed the warmth to stay anchored.
Wifies didn’t challenge him. He just leaned forward slightly, elbows nudging the edge of the table, the ceramic cup still nestled between his hands. His grip shifted. Loosened. Tightened again. “You always say that when they’re not.”
Parrot didn’t respond right away. His eyes tracked a droplet sliding down the glass like it mattered. Then, slowly, a breath slipped out — shaky at the edges, like it’d gotten caught on something heavy before it could escape.
“I hate how much you know me,” he murmured, barely above a whisper.
“I like it,” Wifies replied, with the kind of smile that didn't quite make it to his eyes — not fully. Just a tug at the corner, restrained.
Parrot’s wings shifted again, one feather on the left visibly out of place now — a tiny rebellion against his usually impeccable posture. He didn’t fix it. Didn’t look at Wifies either, but something in the set of his shoulders eased by a thread.
“I haven’t had time to preen,” he said, quiet. As if it embarrassed him to admit it.
Wifies’s eyes flicked down, then back up. “I can tell.”
There was a pause — heavy, but not uncomfortable. Like a weight shared between them, long-familiar.
“You want help?” Wifies asked. His voice was light, but his eyes weren’t. They were still — focused — like he was afraid to blink and miss something important. “Like last time?”
Parrot turned, slow. Blinked. His mouth opened, then closed again. He studied Wifies for a breath too long.
“You remember that?”
“I remember everything,” Wifies said, almost too easily. His thumb rubbed idly against the side of his cup. “Your left wing always gets a little messy when you’re stressed. You get self-conscious, so you hide it whenever you can and hope no one notices. But I do.”
Parrot’s breath hitched — barely, just a change in how he held himself. His hand tightened slightly around the mug. The tension wasn’t loud, but it was there — like a note held in the back of the throat, unplayed.
“I... yeah.” It came out too fast. Then slower, as if catching up to itself: “If you don’t mind.”
Wifies leaned back, but not all the way. Like he wanted to give space, but not distance. “I don’t mind. I like helping you feel better.”
The light from the hanging lamp caught the silver ring on his finger again as he moved — a flicker, brief and deliberate, like punctuation at the end of a thought that hadn’t been spoken aloud.
Parrot’s gaze dipped there — to the ring, then to Wifies’s face — and then away again like it burned. His wings shifted in, curling subtly toward his spine. Contained. Controlled.
“You always say stuff like that,” he murmured, the words barely brushing the air. “Stuff that sounds normal, but isn’t.”
Wifies tilted his head, the motion gentle. “You want me to stop?”
“No.” Immediate. Too immediate. His cheeks colored — not bright, just a flush beneath the skin, warmed by the low café lights. “I just... notice.”
Their eyes met.
And held.
Wifies didn’t look away.
Parrot didn’t either.
The silence stretched. The rain outside intensified, dancing in rivulets down the window like someone had tipped the sky sideways. Thunder grumbled somewhere in the distance, like a reminder that the world was still there, still spinning, still grey and messy and full of moments that almost happened.
Parrot swallowed. His throat worked visibly, the motion barely catching the low café light. His hand twitched once — a hesitant, flickering movement — fingers brushing against the base of his cup, then ghosting the table’s edge like he hadn’t meant to touch it but didn’t quite pull away. The contact was fleeting. The intent behind it wasn’t.
“You still do that thing too,” Wifies said, voice low now, voice warm.
Parrot’s eyes flicked up, then away again, quick as a skip-stone. “What another thing?”
“You look away like I can’t tell you’re staring.”
Parrot scoffed, barely — a short breath through his nose that didn’t reach his eyes. “Arrogant.”
“Observant.”
“I’m hard to read.”
“You’re impossible not to.”
A muscle jumped in Parrot’s cheek. His wings shifted again — a subtle, involuntary draw inward — like the words had snagged on something unguarded. The collar of his coat brushed against them softly, fabric grazing over a few crooked feathers he hadn’t noticed. He adjusted it absently, smoothing it out with jerky fingers, but didn’t fix the wing.
His hands didn’t quite know where to land. They hovered near his mug again, then fidgeted with the edge of the coaster. A beat. Another.
“You’re staring again,” he said without looking.
Wifies sipped his drink, the movement slow, deliberate — not smug, but calm. Centered. “Yeah. I am.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re here. And I like when you’re here.”
Parrot laughed — if it could be called that. It was soft and short and caught somewhere in his chest, like a breath that didn't land right. His lashes dipped, shielding his eyes for a second, and he took a sip of tea that had long since gone lukewarm. As he lowered the cup, his gaze slid back to Wifies — not fully raised, just barely above the rim, like he couldn’t help himself.
“This is why people think we’re—”
“I don’t care what people think,” Wifies cut in. Not sharp. Not defensive. Just… steady. Grounded. “I care that you’re not okay. And I care that you never tell me until you’re practically shaking. So yeah, I’ll preen your wings, and I’ll sit here with you in this dumb café, and I’ll keep being annoying until you admit I’m your favorite person.”
Parrot stared at him. Really stared — like the words had pulled the air out of the room again, like he wasn’t sure what to do with the sincerity in front of him. The fingers on his right hand pressed faintly against the mug’s ceramic, like he needed something solid. His knuckles tightened.
“You are annoying,” he said, voice faint. Not playful. Just… real.
“I’m right, though.”
Parrot didn’t answer.
He didn’t have to.
But one feather near the top of his left wing — the one that always curled out of place — finally stilled.
Then he reached across the table, nudging Wifies’s abandoned spoon back toward him with a single finger. The tiniest touch. Not much.
But enough.
From the window, the storm rolled on.
And inside, two boys sat in a booth they pretended wasn’t theirs, sharing silence like warmth, sharing glances like confessions, and trying not to fall off the edge of something they’d been balancing on for far too long.
Still best friends.
Still almost.
Still maybe.
Though, not for much longer. You clearly know why, reader.
...
Parrot’s finger still lingered by the spoon like he hadn’t meant to move it, like it moved itself. His hand hovered just a moment longer before he pulled it back to his lap, curling it under the table where Wifies couldn’t see. Or so he thought.
Wifies saw everything. He always did.
"You’re tucking your hands again," Wifies said, voice soft as the rain whispering against the café windows. "Which means you're not okay."
Parrot rolled his eyes — gently, lazily, like he couldn’t commit to the full sarcasm. "You’re exhausting."
"You’re transparent," Wifies countered, leaning back into the cushioned booth. "If I cataloged every microexpression you’ve made in the past ten minutes, I could publish a paper."
Parrot gave him a dry look, but he was already biting the inside of his cheek to hide a laugh. “Please don’t profile me in public.”
“I’m not profiling,” Wifies said, gesturing with his coffee cup, “I’m noticing.”
"Same thing."
"Nuance, Parrot. Ever heard of it?"
“Never, Wifies. Sounds fake.”
That made Wifies snort — a short, involuntary laugh that curled up the corners of his eyes. The tension in Parrot’s shoulders eased just barely.
The storm outside deepened — not wild, but steady. Sky like wet concrete, streetlamp halos blurring in the mist. Someone passed by the window with a bright red umbrella, the color smudged by the glass. Inside, the café glowed gold and safe, like a snapshot from a memory neither of them wanted to leave.
Wifies set down his mug, folded his hands in front of him. His thumbs tapped each other. Casual, thoughtful.
"Remember that time you tried to break into the records room with a paperclip and three espresso shots?" he asked suddenly.
Parrot looked up, startled. “Where did that come from?”
“Just thinking about old times. You were vibrating.”
"I wasn’t that caffeinated."
"You knocked over a coat rack and saluted it."
Parrot blinked. Then cracked — just a little, just enough to laugh under his breath, which fogged the rim of his cup again. "Okay, maybe a little caffeinated."
“I still have a video of you whispering to the fire extinguisher like it was a co-conspirator.”
“That fire extinguisher was very supportive.”
Wifies grinned. Parrot grinned back, shyly.
The smile slipped a second later. Not in a dramatic way — just… dimmed. Pulled back like clouds over sunlight.
Wifies noticed.
Immediately.
"You’re doing it again, again," he said softly.
“What.”
"Retreating. Hiding behind jokes. Looking away from me when you don’t want me to see the gears turning."
Parrot didn’t answer. His wings shifted again — one twitch, like a subconscious reaction. Wifies watched them. Watched him.
Then, quieter, “What’s eating you, Parrot? The thing you said earlier had a clinging hook.”
Parrot exhaled through his nose. Slow. Measured. But not steady.
"I genuinely don't know. Well, everything feels loud," he murmured, eyes not quite on anything. “And too quiet at the same time. Like I’m walking around with my ears full of static. Even in here. With you.”
Wifies’s face softened. He leaned forward again, elbows on the table, hands now open like they were ready to hold something invisible.
“I already said this, but you’re not alone in your head, you know,” he said. “You don’t have to unravel it alone. Stop this, bro.”
Parrot’s eyes flicked up to meet his. Just for a second. Then they dropped.
“You’ll think I’m being dramatic.”
“You are dramatic. But I like that about you.”
Parrot smiled. Just barely. “What don’t you like about me?”
“I’ll let you know when I find something,” Wifies said, then added with mock seriousness, “Although the thing with the coat rack came very close.”
Parrot laughed again, quieter this time. He rubbed at the back of his neck, then turned slightly, pulling his coat back just a little so one wing eased more into view. He didn’t look at Wifies when he did it — like he didn’t want to admit what the gesture meant.
Wifies noticed, of course. He always noticed.
He reached across the table and, gently — reverently — plucked one slightly askew feather back into place with a practiced finger. Parrot stilled. Not like he was startled. Like he was holding his breath.
“You always touch them like you’re afraid you’ll mess them up,” Parrot said quietly.
“I always touch them like I don’t want to hurt you,” Wifies replied.
Their eyes met again.
Seconds passed like hours.
“I missed you,” Parrot said suddenly.
Wifies blinked. His voice was quiet. “Yeah?”
“I don’t say it enough,” Parrot continued, voice a little raw at the edges now. “And you’re… always there, and I know I shut down, and talk in riddles, and vanish in the middle of the night, and snap at people who care, and…”
He trailed off.
Wifies reached forward. Took his hand. Just — took it. No question. Just there. Their fingers threaded like it was the easiest thing in the world.
“I know,” Wifies said. “I read the notes between your silences.”
Parrot looked like he might cry.
Or laugh.
Or maybe both.
From the kitchen, someone rang a little silver bell — a high chime that mingled with the sound of rain and distant thunder. Outside, the sky finally cracked open wider, a soft burst of water against the glass. Inside, Parrot’s shoulders eased another fraction.
“Do you think,” he murmured, voice thick with something he couldn’t quite name, “we’ll ever be normal?”
Wifies squeezed his hand.
“No,” he said, smiling crookedly. “But I think we’re already something better.”
“…You ever notice how no one ever teaches you how to stop flinching when someone actually stays?” Parrot said, voice low, like it might crack if he aimed it too loud.
Wifies looked up, his spoon frozen mid-air over a sad-looking sugar cube.
“I notice,” he said. “All the time.”
Parrot gave him a small smile. It didn’t reach his eyes, but it was trying. “You’re good at this.”
“Coffee?”
“No. The… sitting there. Being patient. Making me laugh when I’m trying to spiral.”
Wifies shrugged, like he hadn’t memorized every micro-expression Parrot had ever made. “Well, statistically speaking, I am a delight.”
Parrot let out a snort. “You’re a menace.”
“To crime, yes. To emotional repression? Also yes.”
Parrot rolled his eyes and leaned back, but didn’t let go of Wifies’s hand under the table. His thumb shifted slightly, brushing over Wifies’s knuckles. Wifies noticed. Wifies absolutely noticed.
The sky outside had dimmed another shade, bleeding blues into blacks. The rain had softened into a hush, a whisper of glassy drops streaking down the window. Somewhere behind them, someone was arguing gently over tea temperature.
“I used to pretend,” Parrot said after a moment, eyes tracking the motion outside. “That I didn’t notice when people started… pulling away. Like, oh, they’re just busy. Oh, I’m being dramatic. Oh, I’m too much. I rehearsed that script so many times it felt like breathing.”
“You’re not too much,” Wifies said immediately. “You’re—”
“I know that,” Parrot cut in gently, “when you say it. That’s the weird part.”
Wifies watched him for a second. Studied the crease between his brows, the way he blinked a little more slowly when he was trying not to seem emotional. The way his wings had started folding in slightly, like a quiet sort of self-protection.
“You want me to take over your inner monologue?” Wifies offered. “I’m very qualified. Voice acting range: excellent. Judgmental but loving tone? Five stars.”
Parrot smiled again. This one more real.
“…Alright. Try it.”
Wifies cleared his throat, sat up straight, and raised a finger like he was about to give a TED Talk.
“Hello. This is Parrot’s brain. Friendly reminder that you’re doing your best, and your best is actually very hot. Also: Wifies thinks your laugh is stupid cute, and you’re allowed to feel things without apologizing for them.”
Parrot stared at him, stunned for a second—then laughed. A short, breathy thing that cracked the surface tension around him.
“You forgot the part where Wifies is annoyingly smart and keeps showing up when I least expect it,” he said.
“Oh right, my bad. Also: Wifies is inevitable and better at reading you than your own diary.”
Parrot chuckled, shaking his head, hiding a smile behind his hand. “You know I don’t even have a diary.”
Wifies leaned in, voice playful but eyes deadly sincere. “You should. I’d read it. For research.”
“For blackmail, you mean.”
“Same thing.”
They sat in that slow-lane quiet for a while, just listening to the rain, the low jazz, the comfortable shuffle of strangers behind them. It felt less like a moment and more like a held breath — something sacred tucked between jokes and heartbeats.
Then, after a pause, Wifies asked, soft again, “You sleeping okay lately?”
Parrot hesitated.
“…Some nights.”
Wifies nodded. “You know, I’ve got this weighted blanket back at the villa that’s honestly life-changing. You ever want to try it—”
Parrot glanced up. “You offering to share it?”
Wifies blinked. “Was that a genuine flirt from you?”
“Statistically speaking,” Parrot echoed, dryly, “I am a menace.”
Wifies laughed. Loud, this time. Happy.
He reached across the table, brushing his thumb against the back of Parrot’s hand like he meant it. Like he’d always mean it.
“I’m not going anywhere, you know.”
“I’m trying to believe that,” Parrot whispered.
“Then let me help you try harder.”
And outside, the storm kept singing.
The rain had slowed to a whisper, mist hanging in the air like fogged breath. They walked side by side down the quiet street, past glowing windows and shuttered shops, the puddles catching little reflections of gold and ghost-light.
Neither of them said anything for a while.
Parrot was the first to speak. “You ever just… not want to go back?”
Wifies didn’t answer right away. He tucked his hands into his coat pockets, watching the way Parrot’s wing curved ever so slightly inward—defensive, tired.
“Back where?” Wifies asked eventually. “To the mess? Or the people expecting you to be fine in it?”
“…Both,” Parrot admitted.
Wifies hummed like he understood. He did.
There was another stretch of silence. But it wasn’t awkward. It was the kind of silence that could only come from being near someone who didn’t need to fill it.
A few more steps. The mist dampened the world around them, softening the edges of things. Somewhere behind them, a streetlamp buzzed quietly.
“You know,” Parrot said, more like he was thinking aloud, “when I was a kid, I used to pretend my wings were hurt just so my cousin would fuss over me.”
Wifies raised an eyebrow. “Emotional manipulation. Classic.”
“Shut up, it was strategic bonding.”
“Uh huh. Did it work?”
Parrot smiled faintly. “Too well. He once tried to build me a nest in the laundry hamper. Dragged half the pillows in the house.”
“That’s adorable,” Wifies said. “Did he at least use the good ones?”
“The silk ones from the guest room.”
Wifies let out a soft whistle. “Now that’s love.”
Parrot chuckled, quiet. Then, a beat later, “...Sometimes I forget how to ask for that kind of care without performing.”
Wifies didn’t joke this time. “You don’t have to perform with me.”
The words sat there between them. Not heavy — not sharp. Just true.
Parrot looked at him for a moment. Really looked. The light caught in his eyes, turned them a little glassy, a little unsure.
“…Thanks,” he murmured.
“Always,” Wifies replied. Then, gently: “If you ever want someone to just… be there. No analysis, no commentary, no raccoon-related escape plans—I can do that too.”
Parrot bumped his shoulder into him, barely. But he didn’t pull away after.
“…Maybe not no commentary,” Parrot muttered. “Your silence would be unsettling.”
Wifies grinned. “Fair. I’d probably break within ten minutes and start whispering compliments to your wings again.”
“God, again?”
“Can’t help it. They’re excellent.”
Parrot rolled his eyes, but his wings fluttered, the smallest pleased flick.
They turned the corner, passing a little bakery with a sleepy “closed” sign and a faint cinnamon smell still lingering in the air.
Wifies caught the tiniest shiver in Parrot’s breath. Not from cold.
“I’m not trying to fix you,” he said, softer now. “Just saying—I’m here. Even when you’re quiet. Even when you’re a bit of a mess.”
Parrot’s voice was quiet. “You’re good at this.”
“Being annoying?”
“Being kind.”
Wifies didn’t respond right away.
Then: “You bring it out of me.
By the time they reached the corner, the sky had begun to drip amber. Sunset spilled across the clouds like someone had set the horizon on fire, the edges of the world glowing soft orange and violet. The rain had thinned to a light mist, barely more than dew in the air, clinging to their coats and hair.
Parrot stopped near the edge of the curb, where the streetlamps hadn't quite warmed up yet. His wings twitched slightly, catching the fading light.
“This is your stop, huh?” Wifies said, voice light, but his eyes didn’t match it — just a little too still, a little too focused.
“Yeah,” Parrot said. He didn’t move yet. “Thanks for the coffee. And… not making me talk too much.”
“Anytime,” Wifies replied. Then, with a half-smile, “Except next time I’m charging for the wing compliments. Premium rate.”
Parrot huffed, just barely. “You’re the worst.”
“I try.”
Another pause.
The sunset curved around them like a closing curtain, soft and slow.
Parrot looked at Wifies, his expression unreadable but open. “Be safe going back.”
Wifies tilted his head. “You too.”
Then, more serious, more quiet: “Don’t die, okay?”
Parrot blinked. The joke had weight.
“…You either,” he said, almost like a promise.
Wifies grinned a little, crooked and warm. “Guess we’re both stuck being alive.”
Parrot nodded once. “Tragic.”
Their hands didn’t touch, but they stood just close enough that if either leaned in—
—but they didn’t.
Instead, Parrot stepped back. Wings rustled softly. “See you around?”
“You will,” Wifies said. “I make a terrible ghost.”
And then they parted — footsteps in opposite directions, puddles rippling beneath their boots, the city pulling them quietly away from each other.
But the light lingered.
And so did the smile Parrot left with.
Parrot walked first, boots silent on the wet sidewalk. The golden edge of the sunset clung to the tips of his feathers, glowing faintly as if reluctant to let him go. The air was cooler now — not cold, but crisp in the way that made you breathe a little deeper, maybe just to feel something.
He didn’t get far.
Three steps. Maybe four.
Then he hesitated.
Looked back.
Wifies was still there, hands in his coat pockets, head tilted toward the sky like he was trying to memorize the way it bruised into color. The streetlamp flickered on behind him, painting a halo around his stupid hair. He looked—
—peaceful, somehow. But also like he was trying too hard to look that way.
Parrot turned back around before he could be caught staring. His wings fluttered once, involuntary, and he mumbled to himself, “Don’t die,” under his breath again, as if saying it twice made it binding.
Meanwhile—
Wifies finally dragged his eyes off the sky and exhaled a long, uneven breath.
“Real smooth,” he muttered, hands tightening in his pockets. “Just say ‘your wings are fucking pretty’ like a normal person. Don’t flirt with death metaphors.”
He started walking.
Two steps.
Stopped.
Glanced over his shoulder. Parrot was already gone around the bend. Figures.
Wifies shook his head and kept moving, shoulders tight at first… then slowly easing down.
“You’re gonna be the death of me, birdbrain,” he said to nobody, under his breath. But he smiled when he said it. Couldn’t help it.
And the city, in its quieting sunset hush, just barely echoed it back.