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The last half hour of work was unbearable. Then it became a full hour. The floor manager was too distracted to fetch backup for the till, and the old people just wouldn’t stop coming. That's a Sunday, alright. I tend to hear the hum of the fluorescent lights the whole way home, accompanied only by the incessant ring of the current chart-topper. I’m not completely sure I haven’t left anything in the locker room, but I’ve grabbed the big three; cigarettes, headphones, and the keys to Daeron’s house.
My shoulders already ache from the biting cold. Over my uniform, I pull a tattered, burgundy jumper. I fear it makes me look somewhat like a schoolgirl, but the lines on my face are the markings of a working adult.
The wind outside is fierce for the heart of the city, so I slide into a doorway to light a cigarette with shaky hands. It takes a minute, during which my eyes sting and my patience frays. Once lit, though, it lasts perfectly until I reach the bus stop. I take a last drag as I step onto the bus and naively attempt to flick the filter into the bin despite the weather.
I let down my hair, fingers trembling still, the stress of the day tumbling down with my locks. I drop the headphones over my ears, not to listen to music but to slip into Daeron’s world. He has sent me several videos, both from his camera and the internet. They’ve been continuous; he hasn’t slept in days. In any state of sobriety, his thoughts race like sparks from a determined fire.
There once was magic in our world, and he is living proof of it. Back at our dodgy little boarding school, he had to be moved in with me to stop the boys from messing with him; the only exception to the gender-segregated dorms. I so wish we hadn’t proven those dinosaur rule-makers right, falling hopelessly in love, but here we are. He hadn’t wanted to confess his secret, thought I’d find him barking mad, but I’m persistent in that way. He knew I’d never do what they did to him.
I open his latest video. He is pacing in the kitchen, hair everywhere, talking to the family cat like it’s a council of dragons. He turns his dilated eyes to the camera, blowing me a kiss, and the video ends. I smirk, snapping a photo of it in reply.
He descends from a line of former dragon lords. The dragons are dead, yet their blood remains, passed down through his family’s freakish customs. This sounds like a class-A trip, and he certainly looks the part, but it’s true. Well, he more than looks the part. If I’d met him as an adult, I’d have backed away slowly. But I’ve known him as a sober child, seen the magic in his eyes. That’s why I stayed.
Since he was small, he’s had these dreams. Dreams about dragons that somehow foretell the future. Sometimes it is just a symbol, not a dragon, but it connects to them all the same. Again, sounds drug-induced, but it isn’t. He once dreamed of a bird impaled on a pyre, cawing at a dragon who could do nothing. A week later, Renn—his former roommate —tumbled from a window, cutting himself on his pocketknife. The sickening memory will never leave me.
“There’s nothing like your first time,” Daeron had joked back then, desperate to reassure me before bursting into tears
Lost in thought, I miss my stop. Again. At least I know where I am.
When I finally reach my original destination, the car is waiting. Warmth. For a moment, I forget I’m still outside. It typically awaits me on Sundays, so I have no doubt the driver knew I’d be late. Maekar sends it for me because, no matter how dirty and disgraceful I am, I am his eldest son’s truest tie to peace.
Inside the car, the city noise dulls slightly. Everything is softer from the car to his bedroom. I lean my head against the seat, letting the car cradle me. The heat from the engine seeps into my bones, thawing the tension in my muscles.
Rain hammers against the window, drowning out the harsh city. I watch the droplets gather and fall, picking winners like a child might.
Daeron’s family house is massive. I cannot blame him for living there at twenty-six, it’s practically a flat complex. It stands tall and pale, its whiteness bright against the sky’s grey. My key is not my own, but Daeron’s, a strange privilege I choose not to question. I pause before unlocking the door, as I always do, just to remind myself I’m permitted inside.
The foyer swallows me whole, my footsteps echoing from the high ceilings. I will never get used to stepping inside, becoming part of its grandeur. Daeron’s room hardly feels like part of the same building. I wonder, as I’m nosy, whether his siblings keep to the aesthetic. There are six of them, he can’t be the only black sheep.
Along the sprawling staircase lie several weathered yet expensive pairs of shoes. Most, I believe, belong to the girls. Despite this blemish, the marble floor remains flawlessly polished. I consider slipping my shoes off, sparing the floor another mark, but I can already feel Maekar’s disapproval. Mud, I can pin on another. My worn plimsolls are unmistakably mine.
Daeron’s bedroom smells strongly of wood; a CBD, sandalwood, and patchouli blend of oils he burns on Sundays when it’s finally time to sleep. The familiar scent settles on my skin, a quick relief. The room is lit dimly by warm fairy lights, scattered across the ceiling in imitation of the night sky. A dark checkered shirt hangs lazily over his desk chair. His journal lies open, slanted handwriting dusted faintly with white powder. Atop his record player sits a copy of Alice in Chains’ ‘Jar of Flies’, telling me more than enough about how his last drink went. A thick rug muffles my footsteps as I move towards him.
Worry creeps in. For a moment, I just watch. He is curled on the bed, wrapped in plush beige pyjamas, but not under the covers. Like he meant to sleep but didn’t quite make it. Dried blood flecks his upper lip, a stubborn reminder of nights spent too awake. One hand is tucked under his jaw, the other tracing the edge of his dragon egg. The egg, purple with shining green accents, rests beside him as it has done since he was a baby, catching the light like it’s alive. He clings to it as if it is. It has been in his family for generations, and I still wonder, sometimes, if I’ll get to see it hatch.
Though he hasn’t slept in days, he manages a crooked smile. Something in my chest loosens. I am a sodden mess, my hair most of all, but he takes me in his arms all the same. He doesn’t let go straight away, just holds me, steady and warm. He pulls a towel from beneath his bed only when he lets me go. His hands are slow, a little unsteady, as he works it through my hair. As he goes, he peppers delicate kisses across my cheeks and nose.
“You’re dripping on everything I own,” he scolds lightly. I open my mouth to make a cheap, dirty joke, but he catches it in the air. “Don’t,” he chuckles.
“It only started once I was in the car,” I tell him.
“Then I think the rain likes you a bit too much.”
I perch at the end of his bed. His mattress is a welcome change from the stool I’ve been in all day, and my own, for that matter. He’s quiet, just watching me, like I’m a starlet in a silent film. I try not to lose composure under his gaze. No matter how much time we spend together, his indigo eyes never fail to heat my cheeks.
“For the record,” I say lightly, “you look much worse.” But my feigned coolness likely doesn’t stand up against the shade of red I’ve turned. He stutters, grasping for excuses, but abandons it entirely.
“I missed you.”
“I’m here,” I whisper, nudging him gently towards the pillows.
He leans back, slow and heavy. I slip beneath his arm, moulding to him, feeling the gentle rise of his chest and the warmth that anchors me. My fingers brush the egg, and I hope its stillness means his dreams will be calm.
The rain outside persists, the softened sound resembling a crackling fireplace. Here, in Daeron’s arms, the world contracts until it is nothing but our warm bodies and steady breathing.
When I shift slightly, his arm tightens around me.
“Don’t you dare move,” he murmurs, half-asleep. I squeeze back.
Curled against him, eyelids heavy, the rhythm of his breathing drags me under. I let myself sink, the room, the rain, the week’s exhaustion dissolving. Neither of us stirs. The night folds around us and, finally, it is enough.