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Summary
Whimsy. That's what they call it, too. Whimsy.
Right.
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Dex has been here for no more than a month. He's surrounded by his team, his weird as fuck team that talk loud in ways that his hometown never would have allowed. Bracketed by his linemate Nursey that he can't stand – for reasons he can't articulate nor tell anybody about – and the embodiment of some cosmic ideal of hope and light in Chowder.
He feels good. Feels accepted. Feels normal.
But he knows better to run his mouth. Knows not to let his words spill out without review, to taste what he's about to say and change its flavor accordingly, knows to always check with his Connoway gift how it could be received.
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Magic is real, but is only ever inconvenient. Dex can taste intent, his worst of all. He hates his gift with all his heart. But worst of all, he hates lies. He hates Nursey for lying as much as he does, for his lies tasting as bad as his does. Maybe some day they stop lying altogether. Maybe some day when they are done being angry, they see each other for who they are.
Maybe that day is sooner than either of them think.
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