Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Chapter One: The Blanket Fort War

Parrot had a system.

This was not, in itself, unusual.

Parrot had systems for most things, largely because systems had the decency to stay where he put them.

There was a system for bills: paid in order of due date, marked in blue on the calendar, filed immediately afterward so he would not find them six weeks later beneath a stack of takeout menus and have a stress response strong enough to leave his body. There was a system for groceries: a shared list on the fridge, a backup list in his phone, and a third emergency list in the kitchen drawer because Spoke had once used the first two lists to write down “buy a trampoline” in increasingly urgent handwriting.

There was a system for laundry, which mostly involved removing Wemmbu’s abandoned socks from places socks should not be. Lampshades. Bookshelves. The fruit bowl. Once, very memorably, the freezer.

There was a system for making sure Flame ate breakfast when he got distracted doing something helpful for someone else, a system for making sure Spoke did not buy anything described with the words limited edition, extreme, or possibly illegal, and a system for locating Wemmbu whenever the house became suspiciously quiet.

The Wemmbu system was simple.

First, check the couch.

Second, check wherever the snacks were kept.

Third, find Flame, because Wemmbu tended to orbit him with the reliable inevitability of a small, affectionate moon.

If none of those worked, Parrot checked the roof.

This was not because Wemmbu was particularly likely to be on the roof.

It was because Spoke was, and wherever Spoke was doing something that required immediate intervention, there was a solid chance Wemmbu was nearby providing commentary.

Parrot considered all of these systems to be basic household maintenance.

The other three called them “endearing.”

Parrot did not trust people who called responsible behavior endearing. It implied they expected him to continue doing it.

Still, the Saturday-morning system was perhaps his favorite.

Coffee first. Not the emergency coffee, the good coffee. Two loads of laundry. The kitchen list. A check of the bills. Then two uninterrupted hours at the desk while the other three found ways to entertain themselves that did not involve breaking furniture, appliances, bones, or any foundational laws of structural engineering.

That last part was, admittedly, aspirational.

But it was a beautiful system.

It lasted thirty-seven minutes.

“Adults should build blanket forts more often,” Spoke announced from somewhere behind the couch.

Parrot did not look up from the receipt in front of him.

“No.”

There was a pause.

“You don’t even know what I was going to say next.”

“I do,” Parrot said, making a neat note next to the electricity bill. “You were going to say something that would cost money, make a mess, or involve climbing on an object not designed to hold your body weight.”

“Wow.” Spoke sounded wounded. “You think so little of me.”

“I think exactly enough of you.”

Across the room, Wemmbu made a small, delighted noise.

Not laughter. Not yet.

It was the little inhale he made when he had just watched somebody set a lit match beside a crate labeled fireworks and was deciding whether to run or pull up a chair.

Parrot looked up despite himself.

Spoke had emerged from behind the couch wearing a blue throw blanket over one shoulder like a cape. His hair was doing whatever it wanted, which was apparently a great deal. He held one end of the blanket in a fist and looked genuinely prepared to lead a revolution.

Wemmbu was draped upside down over the armchair, one foot hooked around its side and Parrot’s missing throw pillow tucked smugly under his chin. He had stolen Flame’s black hoodie sometime during the morning. Its sleeves covered his hands, and the hem pooled over his thighs. He looked entirely too comfortable for someone who had almost certainly been awake long enough to make trouble but not long enough to eat something nutritious.

At the far end of the couch, Flame was reading.

Of course Flame was reading.

He sat with one ankle resting over his knee, broad shoulders relaxed, a book open in one hand and a mug of tea warming the other. Morning light fell through the window and caught in his hair, making the edges look softer than they had any right to. His expression did not change at Spoke’s declaration, but the smallest twitch at the corner of his mouth gave him away. (performative man final boss)

Traitor.

“Tell him,” Spoke said, pointing at Parrot as though Parrot had committed a personal offense against childhood wonder. “Tell him adults should build blanket forts.”

Flame turned a page. “I think adults can do whatever they want.”

“See?” Spoke said immediately.

“That is not an endorsement,” Parrot said.

“It is an endorsement from Flame.” Wemmbu lifted his head just enough to grin. “Those only happen once every three business days. We need to seize the moment.”

Parrot stared at all three of them.

Flame had the audacity to look faintly apologetic.

It did not work on Parrot. Mostly because he had been with Flame long enough to know that look. It was the look Flame got when Spoke was smiling brightly and making a terrible suggestion. It was the look Flame got when Wemmbu had hidden something important “for safekeeping.” It was the look that said, This is a bad idea, but they are happy, and I am apparently powerless in the face of that.

Flame was sensible. Thoughtful. Patient. Capable of carrying an alarming number of grocery bags in one trip without looking strained.

Unfortunately, he had fallen in love with two people who shared one brain cell on a rotating schedule.

And Parrot, somehow, had joined them.

“You have blankets,” Parrot said. “You have couches. You have a perfectly functional living room. Why do you need to turn it into a fabric-based hazard?”

“Atmosphere,” Wemmbu said.

“Whimsy,” Spoke added.

“Dust,” Parrot corrected.

Spoke put a hand dramatically over his heart. “You hate joy.”

“I hate property damage.”

“That’s basically the same thing.”

“It is not remotely-”

“Maybe,” Wemmbu said, sitting up abruptly, “Parrot is afraid he won’t fit in the fort.”

The room went still for half a beat.

Parrot narrowed his eyes. “Explain.”

“Emotionally,” Wemmbu said quickly.

Spoke folded in half laughing.

Flame lowered his book. “Wemmbu.”

“What?” Wemmbu asked, in the innocent tone of a person who was obviously and completely guilty. “I mean he is too mature and dignified for blanket-related recreation. He is an Adult. With paperwork.”

Parrot should have returned to the receipts.

He should have taken the high road. He should have reminded himself that he was a grown adult with responsibilities and a credit score, not a person whose pride could be manipulated by a man upside down in an armchair.

But being the responsible adult in this house was less a role Parrot had chosen and more a title the universe had handed him while laughing.

So, naturally, he said, “Fine.”

Three faces turned toward him.

Parrot immediately regretted every decision that had brought him to this moment.

“Fine?” Spoke echoed.

“Fine,” Parrot repeated, because retreat was cowardice and he would not let Wemmbu win an argument he had not even technically started. “You can build a blanket fort. But there are rules.”

Wemmbu’s grin widened with dangerous speed. “Oh, this is going to be good.”

“Rule one: nothing gets attached to the light fixtures.”

Spoke opened his mouth.

“No,” Parrot said.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You were going to.”

“I was going to ask a clarifying question.”

“No clarifying questions.”

Flame coughed into his hand. It did not hide the laugh.

Parrot pointed at him. “You are supposed to be helping me.”

“I am,” Flame said, with grave sincerity. “I’m listening to the rules.”

That should not have made Parrot’s chest feel warm.

It was not even a romantic statement. It was barely a statement. But Flame said things like that quietly, as if his attention was the most ordinary thing in the world and somehow made Parrot feel like the axis the whole room was turning around.

Parrot hated being susceptible to it.

He hated it even more because Flame knew exactly what he was doing.

“Rule two,” Parrot continued, looking down at the paper before anyone noticed his expression, “no food inside until someone puts down a clean sheet. Rule three: no one stands on the coffee table.”

Spoke looked deeply offended. “That one feels targeted.”

“It is targeted.”

“Rule four,” Wemmbu said, climbing carefully out of the chair. “Parrot has to come inside once it’s finished.”

Parrot opened his mouth to refuse.

Then Spoke’s expression changed.

It was tiny. It would have escaped almost anyone else. His smile stayed in place, but something behind it went briefly uncertain, almost expectant. Like he had said it as a joke because jokes were easier than asking if Parrot actually wanted to be there.

Wemmbu did that too. He did it with more confidence, more theatrical flourishes, and worse metaphors, but the shape of it was the same.

They were both loud. They were both impossible. They made every room feel bigger just by entering it.

And sometimes, when something mattered, they made themselves so small.

Parrot knew it. He knew the subtle tells. The way Spoke got extra bright when he was worried he was asking too much. The way Wemmbu made a joke sharp enough to cut before anyone could ask why he had gone quiet. The way both of them looked toward Flame first, not because they thought Flame was in charge, but because Flame was safe.

Parrot set his pen down.

“One hour,” he said. “Then I have things to finish.”

Spoke lit up so quickly it was almost embarrassing to witness.

“One hour,” he agreed.

Wemmbu moved behind Parrot’s chair, put both hands on his shoulders, and kissed his cheek before Parrot could duck away. “You’re the best unwilling participant in the world.”

“I am not participating.”

“You made rules,” Flame said.

Parrot looked over at him. “You are also not helping.”

Flame smiled.

That was worse.

The fort began as a reasonable structure.

This was the first warning sign.

Spoke declared that the couch was the “central command center.” Wemmbu objected that the armchair had better strategic value. They spent six full minutes debating the question with the intensity of people planning a military campaign, until Flame quietly moved the coffee table aside with one hand.

Spoke stopped talking in the middle of a sentence to stare at him.

“Show-off,” he said.

Flame set the table gently against the wall. “You were trying to drag it.”

“I could have dragged it.”

“You were pulling it toward your foot.”

“I had a plan.”

“It was a bad plan,” Parrot said.

Spoke pointed at him. “You’re supposed to be on my side now.”

“I am on the side of not going to urgent care because you declared war on furniture.”

“I did not declare war on furniture.”

The coffee table, which bore a fresh scrape across one leg from an incident two months ago, seemed to disagree.

Wemmbu had vanished while they were talking.

Parrot knew this because suddenly, a pile of blankets appeared in the center of the living room.

Then another.

Then a duvet cover, two quilts, three throw blankets, a pale yellow bedspread Parrot had not seen since winter, and what appeared to be every pillowcase they owned.

“Why are there pillowcases?” Parrot asked.

Wemmbu reappeared in the doorway with an armful of clothespins. “Decor.”

“Those are pillowcases.”

“Exactly. They’re small blankets for emotionally small people.”

Spoke gasped. “That was specifically targeted at me.”

“Was it?” Wemmbu asked, too sweetly.

“It was.”

“Then why did Flame look offended?”

Flame blinked. “I didn’t.”

“You did a little,” Spoke said.

“I didn’t.”

Parrot had learned, through long and painful experience, that this was not a conversation that needed his involvement.

He began collecting the blankets into something resembling categories.

Immediately, Spoke appeared at his shoulder.

“Are you sorting them?”

“No.”

“They are in piles.”

“They were in a pile. Now they are in useful piles.”

“What’s the difference?”

“One is chaos. One is inventory.”

Wemmbu leaned over the back of the couch and peered at Parrot’s hands. “What are the categories?”

Parrot tried to move the stack away from him.

Wemmbu was faster.

“Structural,” Wemmbu read aloud. “Ceiling. Wall. Floor. Decorative. Emergency.” He looked delighted. “You made an emergency blanket category.”

“It’s a practical category.”

“What is an emergency blanket?” Spoke asked.

“The one you use if somebody spills something on the floor blanket.”

There was a silence.

Then Flame said, very gently, “That’s actually smart.”

Parrot looked at him.

Flame looked back over the top of his mug, expression completely earnest.

This was a problem. Flame should not be allowed to say nice things about Parrot’s household management decisions with that face. Parrot had work to do. He had bills to organize. He had a completely reasonable emotional distance to maintain.

Instead, his ears got warm.

Wemmbu noticed.

Of course he did.

“Oh,” Wemmbu said, drawing out the word until it became a weapon. “Parrot likes praise.”

“I do not.”

“You do.”

“I like competence being acknowledged.”

“That is praise with a tie on.”

Spoke nodded as though this was the wisest thing he had ever heard. “Praise Business Casual.”

Flame’s smile turned into a laugh.

Parrot turned back to the blankets before any of them could see the helpless little curve at the corner of his mouth.

He was not smiling.

He was simply preventing himself from committing a crime.

The first practical issue arose when Spoke wanted to use the dining chairs as fort supports.

“No,” Parrot said.

“But they’re the perfect height.”

“They are for sitting on.”

“They can do both.”

“They cannot.”

“Everything can do more than one thing if you believe in it enough.”

“Not the chairs.”

Spoke stared at him.

Parrot stared back.

Wemmbu, meanwhile, was already draping a blue blanket between the back of the couch and the armchair. He did it with exaggerated care, tongue caught between his teeth in concentration. A few loose strands of hair fell into his face. He blew at them, failed to move them, and looked vaguely betrayed by the air.

Flame crossed the room without saying anything, reached out, and tucked the strands behind Wemmbu’s ear.

The touch was quick. Familiar. Barely there.

Wemmbu went still for half a second.

Then he leaned shamelessly into Flame’s hand.

“Thank you,” he said, too casual.

Flame’s thumb brushed once against his cheek before he pulled away. “You’re welcome.”

Parrot looked down at the blanket in his hands.

He had seen them touch like that hundreds of times. Maybe thousands. It was not new. Nothing about the way Flame took care of them was new.

But there were days when it still struck Parrot with the soft force of a wave.

Flame did not make a production of loving people. He just loved them. Constantly. In the way he automatically moved sharp things out of Spoke’s path without interrupting a conversation. In the way he listened when Wemmbu talked too fast. In the way he filled Parrot’s mug before it was empty because he knew Parrot would otherwise drink cold coffee while pretending it was fine.

There were people who made devotion loud.

Flame made it inevitable.

Parrot cleared his throat. “If you’re using the couch and armchair, you need a second anchor point.”

All three of them looked at him.

“I am not participating,” Parrot said, immediately.

“Of course not,” Wemmbu replied, smiling far too wide. “You’re merely offering structural consultation.”

“Exactly.”

“Like a very handsome engineer,” Spoke added.

“I am leaving.”

“You are not,” Flame said.

Parrot turned toward him, ready to object.

Flame was holding out Parrot’s coffee mug.

It was still warm.

Parrot took it because he had no choice. The universe had made a mockery of him, personally, and it was wearing Flame’s face.

“Fine,” he muttered.

Spoke made a triumphant noise.

“Do not make that sound,” Parrot told him.

“I will make it louder.”

“You will not.”

Spoke made it louder.

By the time Parrot had explained that clothespins were acceptable only if they were not attached to anything important, Flame was holding one side of the developing fort steady while Wemmbu threaded blankets between chair backs. Spoke had been assigned to carry pillows.

This was an important role.

It was also, Parrot suspected, the only role in which Spoke could do limited damage.

Spoke carried the first two pillows properly.

The third he balanced on his head.

The fourth he threw at Wemmbu.

Wemmbu caught it without looking and threw it at Parrot.

Parrot caught it against his chest on pure reflex.

The room went quiet.

Spoke’s eyes widened.

Wemmbu slowly sat up straighter.

Flame looked down, then back at Parrot. “Nice catch.”

Parrot stared at the pillow in his hands.

He could feel the moment approaching. It was large. It was inevitable. It had the distinct shape of a poor decision.

“No,” he said.

“We didn’t say anything,” Spoke replied.

“I know what you are thinking.”

“What am I thinking?”

“Pillow fight.”

Spoke’s grin gave him the answer.

Wemmbu clutched a hand to his chest. “Parrot, I am devastated that you would assume we are so predictable.”

“You are both standing in front of me holding pillows.”

“That could mean anything.”

“It means exactly one thing.”

Flame set down the blanket support. “Maybe save it until the fort is finished.”

Spoke looked at him. “You’re not against it?”

Flame’s expression went carefully neutral.

Parrot had been dating him long enough to see the flicker beneath it. Flame was not against it. Flame was very much thinking about it. Flame had the same competitive streak as the rest of them; he was simply polite enough to hide it until somebody challenged him.

Spoke saw it too.

A slow smile spread across his face.

“Oh,” he said. “Oh, you want to fight.”

“I did not say that.”

“You didn’t have to.”

“Spoke,” Parrot warned.

Spoke looked at Flame with the reckless confidence of a man who had never met a challenge he did not immediately try to turn into a competition. “I bet I could beat you.”

Flame raised an eyebrow. “At a pillow fight?”

“At anything.”

Parrot looked toward the ceiling, which remained uninjured for now, and wondered what he had done in a previous life.

Flame’s mouth twitched. “That sounds like a bad idea.”

“Are you scared?”

“No.”

“Then you’re accepting.”

“That is not how accepting works.”

“It is today.”

Wemmbu whispered, “This is better than television.”

Parrot pressed his fingers to his temple. “Nobody is fighting until the fort is stable.”

“Parrot’s right,” Flame said.

Spoke turned to look at Parrot with clear betrayal. “You’re on his side?”

“I am on the side of the ceiling not falling on us.”

“Coward,” Spoke said.

“Adult,” Parrot corrected.

The word came out sharper than he meant it to.

Spoke’s expression flickered.

Parrot regretted it immediately.

It was ridiculous. It was a blanket fort. Spoke would forget it in seconds. Spoke did forget things in seconds, usually important things like appointments or where he had put his shoes.

But he did not forget words when they were said in the wrong tone.

Before Parrot could figure out how to take it back without making it worse, Flame spoke.

“Adult doesn’t mean boring,” he said.

His voice was quiet. It did not need to be louder.

Spoke glanced at him.

Flame looked toward Parrot, then held out a hand to Spoke. “It means you’re the reason we have snacks and a clean floor to sit on.”

Spoke’s face softened.

Parrot’s did something far more inconvenient.

Flame’s hand stayed outstretched. Spoke considered it for exactly one second before taking it. Flame tugged him gently closer and bumped his shoulder against Spoke’s.

“You can challenge me later,” Flame said. “I’ll even let you make the rules.”

Spoke perked up. “Any rules?”

“Reasonable rules.”

Spoke considered that, then sighed dramatically. “Tyranny.”

But he was smiling again.

Parrot looked down at his coffee. There was a soft ache behind his ribs that had nothing to do with guilt and everything to do with the fact that Flame always knew how to smooth the edges off a moment without making anyone feel corrected.

It was one of the things Parrot loved most about him.

He would not say that out loud.

Probably.

The fort became unreasonable approximately ten minutes later, when Spoke decided it needed a second floor.

“No,” Parrot said.

“But—”

“No.”

“Parrot.”

“No.”

“You haven’t even seen the design.”

“I can see the design. It is you standing on the couch arm with a bedsheet.”

Spoke looked genuinely surprised. “How did you know?”

“Because I have met you.”

“It could be a very good second floor.”

“It could be a very brief second floor.”

“It would have a balcony.”

“It would have an ambulance.”

Wemmbu, who had no interest in preventing disaster if it looked aesthetically interesting, tilted his head. “What if we called it a loft?”

“No.”

“What if we called it an observation deck?”

“No.”

“What if we made it very pretty?”

“Still no.”

Spoke had already placed one foot on the couch arm.

Flame, who had been holding up one side of the fort with the patient resignation of a man assisting in the construction of a monument he knew would eventually collapse, reached out and caught Spoke around the waist before he could climb higher.

Spoke made an indignant yelp.

“Absolutely not,” Flame said.

“I am being oppressed.”

“You are being prevented from falling.”

“Same thing.”

Flame set him back on the floor, gentle but immovable.

Spoke stood with his arms folded, attempting to look offended. He lasted four seconds before he leaned his shoulder against Flame’s arm. It was barely a touch, light as punctuation.

Flame’s expression softened so quickly Parrot almost missed it.

Almost.

Flame shifted his weight just slightly, making room without stepping away. Spoke stayed leaned against him, the stubborn set of his mouth easing when Flame said nothing at all.

There were moments like that, Parrot thought. Moments that did not look like much from the outside.

Spoke leaning without asking.

Flame already braced to take the weight.

Wemmbu humming under his breath as he threaded a blanket between two chair backs.

Flame’s hoodie hanging from Wemmbu’s shoulders.

The instinctive way they all moved around one another—not careful exactly, but certain.

It should have made Parrot feel crowded.

Instead, it made the living room feel less like a room.

More like a place that had been waiting for them to fill it.

He cleared his throat and looked down at the snack list he had somehow begun writing.

Spoke peered over his shoulder. “Are you making a supply manifest?”

“No.”

“Those are categories.”

“They are necessary categories.”

Wemmbu flopped over the back of the couch, upside down again. “What categories?”

Parrot moved the page out of reach. “Savory. Sweet. Drinks. Things Spoke is not allowed to open without supervision.”

Spoke gasped. “That’s discrimination.”

“That’s based on evidence.”

“Can we have popcorn?” Flame asked.

The question was quiet, almost hesitant—not because Flame was actually shy, Parrot knew, but because Flame had a habit of making room for everybody else’s preferences before naming his own.

Parrot looked at him.

“Of course we can have popcorn,” he said.

Flame’s smile was small.

Real.

Something in Parrot’s chest went annoyingly soft again.

This was why he kept lists. Lists were easier than feelings. Lists did not look at you like you had granted them a wish when all they had asked for was popcorn.

“What else?” Spoke asked, suddenly crowding close enough to read over Parrot’s shoulder. “Candy?”

“We have candy.”

“Chips?”

“We have chips.”

“Those little fruit gummies?”

“No.”

Spoke gasped. “No?”

“No fruit gummies.”

“Why?”

“Because you ate an entire bag last time and then tried to convince us you could see through time.”

“I could see through time.”

“You could see the kitchen clock.”

“It was moving.”

“It was a clock.”

Wemmbu, still upside down, lifted one finger. “In Spoke’s defense, it was moving.”

“That is not a defense.”

“It’s a very funny defense.”

Flame was smiling into his tea.

Parrot gave up. “Fine. One bag of fruit gummies. Shared.”

Spoke looked delighted. “You love me.”

“I tolerate you under controlled conditions.”

Spoke threw both arms around Parrot’s shoulders from behind.

Parrot stiffened automatically, mostly because Spoke was all warmth and sudden weight and smelled faintly of laundry soap and whatever he had eaten for breakfast. Then Spoke squeezed once, quick and tight.

“I love you too,” he said.

The words were tossed out lightly, as easy as a joke.

They still landed.

Parrot patted one of Spoke’s arms because that was a normal, manageable response to a sudden declaration of love and not at all because his throat had gone inconveniently tight.

“Go get the snacks,” he said.

Spoke saluted. “Yes, commander.”

“I am not the commander.”

“Noted, Commander Parrot.”

Then he sprinted toward the kitchen.

“Do not run in the house,” Parrot called.

“I’m not running,” Spoke yelled back. “I’m moving with purpose!”

There was a thud from the hallway.

Parrot closed his eyes.

“Are you all right?” Flame called.

“I’m fine!” Spoke shouted, much farther away now.

Wemmbu looked at Parrot. “You should let him keep the fruit gummies. He paid a toll.”

“No.”

The kitchen was, in Parrot’s opinion, an innocent bystander.

It had been perfectly clean fifteen minutes ago.

Now Spoke had opened three cupboards, a drawer, and somehow the freezer. Wemmbu followed him in with the look of someone arriving at a buffet. Flame came behind them, not because he was hungry—although he probably was, because Flame was always hungry by the time somebody noticed he had skipped a meal—but because he had apparently accepted his role as damage-control support.

Parrot stayed in the doorway with his list.

“Popcorn is on the second shelf,” he said.

“I know where popcorn is,” Spoke replied, while looking directly into the cupboard that held bowls.

“It is not in there.”

“I was checking.”

“For what?”

“Possible secret popcorn.”

“There is no secret popcorn.”

Wemmbu opened the cupboard beside him. “There is secret cereal.”

Parrot turned his head slowly.

Wemmbu held up a box from the cupboard Parrot had labeled Plates.

Spoke made a delighted sound. “He did it again.”

“I did not do it again,” Parrot said.

They all looked toward the cupboard.

The label did, in fact, say Plates.

The cupboard did, in fact, contain cereal.

Parrot frowned. “I put the plates there yesterday.”

Wemmbu was already laughing. “Then perhaps the cereal developed legs.”

Spoke leaned close to the box, as though listening for a confession. “Very suspicious.”

Parrot looked at Flame.

Flame, the only person in this house who could conceivably be trusted with the truth, held up both hands. “It wasn’t me.”

“I know it wasn’t you.”

“Thank you.”

“You are physically incapable of doing something that petty.”

Wemmbu put a hand over his heart. “That was almost sweet.”

“It was not.”

Flame’s expression warmed anyway.

Parrot hated all of them.

He loved all of them. Which was different. Unfortunately.

“Fine,” he said, taking the cereal box and setting it on the counter. “Everyone choose one snack. One.”

Spoke immediately pointed at the fruit gummies.

“Fine,” Parrot said. “One snack plus fruit gummies.”

Spoke grinned. “You’re getting easier to negotiate with.”

“I am getting tired.”

Wemmbu chose chocolate-covered pretzels. Flame chose popcorn, as expected, then quietly added a package of tea biscuits to the counter.

“Those are for you,” Flame said when Parrot looked at them.

Parrot blinked. “I didn’t ask for—”

“I know.”

Flame said it simply. Like that explained everything.

It did, unfortunately.

Parrot had mentioned liking them once. Not even recently. Weeks ago, while half-asleep on the couch and complaining that the store-brand biscuits tasted like compressed dust.

Flame had remembered.

He always remembered.

Parrot stared at the package for one second too long.

Then Wemmbu leaned against the counter beside him and, without teasing, bumped his shoulder into Parrot’s.

“Put them on the list,” he said softly.

Parrot glanced at him.

Wemmbu was looking at the snacks, not at Parrot. His expression was casual, but there was something gentler under it.

Parrot understood.

He wrote tea biscuits beneath popcorn.

Flame’s hand brushed the back of his as he reached for the bowl stack.

It was just a brush.

Parrot thought about it for an unreasonable amount of time.

The popcorn situation became complicated because Spoke wanted to make it himself.

“No,” Parrot said.

“I can make popcorn.”

“You can burn microwave popcorn.”

“I have made microwave popcorn.”

“You have created microwave popcorn-shaped smoke.”

“That was one time.”

“It was three times,” Flame said.

Spoke turned toward him. “You too?”

Flame looked apologetic. “I was there.”

“You’re all against me.”

“No,” Wemmbu said. “We are against fire alarms.”

“I can supervise,” Flame offered.

Spoke brightened instantly. “Yes.”

Parrot began to object, then stopped.

Flame had already moved beside Spoke at the counter. He was not hovering. Flame never made help look like control. He simply stood close enough to reach the buttons on the microwave first if necessary.

“Two minutes,” Flame said.

“Two minutes,” Spoke repeated, pressing the numbers with great solemnity.

“And if it starts smelling burnt?”

“I stop it.”

“Good.”

Spoke looked up at him. “Do you really think I can do it?”

Flame did not hesitate. “I think you can do it.”

It was such a small thing. Microwave popcorn. A timer. A button.

But Spoke’s shoulders went loose with relief.

Parrot had to look away.

There were some kinds of love that did not announce themselves with grand gestures. They lived in the gentle confidence of somebody saying, I think you can do it, and meaning it.

The popcorn came out unburned.

Spoke celebrated by throwing both fists into the air.

Wemmbu applauded so enthusiastically that Ashen, who had appeared in the kitchen doorway at the smell, startled and barked.

Flame took the hot bag from Spoke before he could grab it wrong. “Good job.”

Spoke was still grinning when he looked at Parrot. “See?”

Parrot inspected the popcorn.

He considered pretending it was bad, just to maintain order in the universe.

But it smelled fine. It looked fine. Spoke was already waiting for the verdict in a way that made Parrot’s refusal feel cruel.

“It’s acceptable,” Parrot said.

Spoke threw an arm around Flame’s shoulders. “He loves it.”

“I said acceptable.”

“That’s Parrot for loves it,” Wemmbu said.

“It is not.”

Flame took a piece of popcorn and tried it. “It’s good.”

Spoke beamed at him.

Parrot quietly took a second piece.

Nobody commented.

Which was kind of them.

When they returned to the living room with snacks, plates, drinks, and one extremely determined dog, the fort had somehow become larger.

Parrot stopped in the doorway.

“You moved the armchair.”

Wemmbu looked proud. “We improved the footprint.”

“You moved the armchair.”

“We optimized the space.”

“You moved it without asking for help.”

Flame lifted one hand. “I helped.”

Parrot turned to him.

Flame looked almost sheepish. “It was heavier than it looked.”

“That is not the point.”

“It’s in a better place,” Spoke said.

It was, annoyingly, in a better place. The armchair now made an angled support opposite the couch, creating a wider interior. A blanket draped from the top of the chair to the couch back, forming a blue-and-gold ceiling that dipped slightly in the middle. More blankets lined the floor. The pillows had been arranged in a loose circle.

It looked absurd.

It also looked warm.

Wemmbu had tied a strip of fabric above the entrance like a banner.

Parrot squinted at it.

“What does that say?”

Spoke straightened. “Welcome to Fort—”

“Don’t say it.”

“—Parrot Is Extremely Fun And Loves Us.”

Wemmbu made a noise somewhere between a laugh and a choke.

Parrot stared at Spoke.

Spoke smiled at him, sunny and impossible.

“Terrible name,” Parrot said.

“You’re right,” Spoke replied. “It needs workshopping.”

“What happened to no lying?” Flame asked.

Spoke looked at him. “That isn’t lying. Parrot is extremely fun.”

Parrot raised an eyebrow.

Spoke nodded with even greater conviction. “Extremely.”

Something uncomfortable and fond tugged beneath Parrot’s ribs.

He looked away before anyone could see it.

“Get the sheet down,” he said. “If anyone spills anything directly on my carpet, I will start charging admission.”

Spoke saluted. “Yes, Fort Dad.”

“I am not—”

Wemmbu grabbed Parrot’s sleeve before he could finish. “Come on. We need your quality-control inspection.”

“I don’t.”

“We built it under your regulations. That makes you the inspector.”

“That isn’t how regulations work.”

“You should get a tiny clipboard.”

“I already have a clipboard.”

There was a pause.

Spoke’s eyes widened. “You have a fort clipboard?”

“It is not a fort clipboard. It is a normal clipboard.”

“Bring it,” Wemmbu said.

“No.”

“Bring it,” Spoke echoed.

Flame’s eyes crinkled when he smiled. “You don’t have to bring it.”

Parrot looked at him.

The distinction was so subtle it could have been nothing.

But Flame knew he was listening. He knew Parrot hated being pushed, even lovingly. He was making room. Giving Parrot the choice back.

Parrot looked toward the desk.

Then, with all the dignity of a man refusing to be emotionally manipulated by the people he loved, he picked up the clipboard.

Wemmbu made a delighted squeak.

“I am using it for inspection,” Parrot said.

“Of course you are.”

The inspection was thorough.

It had to be. The welfare of the household depended on it.

Parrot crouched outside the entrance and examined the draped blankets. The clothespins were secured. The couch cushions were stable. The chairs were not under excessive strain. The blue blanket ceiling sagged a little more than he liked, but not enough to cause immediate concern.

Spoke waited behind him, vibrating with impatience.

“Well?” he asked.

Parrot made a noncommittal sound.

“Well?”

“Stop asking.”

“Is it structurally sound?”

“It is structurally… optimistic.”

Wemmbu laughed.

Spoke looked offended. “That’s not a real answer.”

“It is the answer you earned.”

Flame crouched beside Parrot. Their knees brushed.

Neither of them moved away.

“What would make it better?” Flame asked.

Parrot glanced at the ceiling. “Another support in the middle.”

Spoke brightened. “Second floor?”

“No.”

“Middle support,” Flame said, ignoring him.

Parrot nodded toward the tall lamp near the window. “We could shift it and use the floor lamp’s base as an anchor. Not the lamp itself.”

Spoke opened his mouth.

“Not the lamp itself,” Parrot repeated.

“I was just going to agree.”

“No, you weren’t.”

“I could have been.”

“You have never agreed with me that fast in your life.”

“Maybe I’m growing.”

Wemmbu patted Spoke’s head. “Not vertically.”

Spoke made an outraged noise and tried to catch his wrist. Wemmbu twisted away, laughing, and nearly backed into the fort wall.

Flame caught him at the waist before he could fall.

Again.

Wemmbu looked up at him.

“You’re very grabby today,” he said.

“You’re very fall-y today,” Flame replied.

“I am graceful.”

“You walked into a door yesterday.”

“The door moved.”

“It was closed.”

“Exactly. Suspicious.”

Flame’s smile was helpless.

Parrot watched the way Flame’s hands stayed at Wemmbu’s waist for one extra second before letting go. The way Wemmbu’s fingers caught briefly at Flame’s wrist, as if asking him not to move too far away.

Their relationship was loud in some ways. Kisses stolen in the hallway. Dramatic declarations over burned toast. Spoke announcing, at breakfast, that he loved everyone “more than the concept of sleeping in.”

But it was quiet in other ways.

A hand staying.

A shoulder offered.

A person standing close enough that another could lean.

Parrot looked down at the clipboard.

He made a checkmark beside middle support.

No one asked what else was on the list.

That was nice too.

They moved the lamp base. Flame handled the actual lifting, obviously, while Parrot instructed everyone else not to trip over the cord. Spoke held the blanket in place with the solemn concentration of someone defusing a bomb. Wemmbu crouched at the floor, attaching the fabric to the weighted base with two clothespins and one piece of ribbon that Parrot did not remember owning.

“Where did you get that?” Parrot asked.

Wemmbu held it up. “Craft drawer.”

“We do not have a craft drawer.”

“We do now.”

Parrot opened his mouth.

Then he remembered that the craft drawer had begun as an ordinary junk drawer, and that arguing would only lead to him discovering twelve unexplained glue sticks and a roll of glittery tape.

“Fine,” he said.

Wemmbu smiled as though he had been granted a kingdom.

The fort held.

It did not merely hold. With the center support, it became almost impressive.

Almost.

Spoke crawled through the entrance first, then turned immediately and spread his arms wide.

“Welcome,” he announced, “to Fort Parrot Is Extremely Fun And Loves Us.”

“No,” Parrot said.

“We decided it was final.”

“Who is we?”

“Me.”

“That is not a committee.”

“It is when I’m confident.”

Flame ducked inside next, because naturally the tallest person in the group was cursed with having to fold himself in half to enter their ridiculous creation. He settled near the center with his back against the couch, broad shoulders taking up too much space and somehow making the whole thing feel sturdier.

Wemmbu crawled in after him and, with no hesitation whatsoever, curled against Flame’s side. The gray hoodie sleeves swallowed his hands. He tugged them over his knuckles and rested his head on Flame’s shoulder.

Flame did not even glance down.

His arm just came around Wemmbu automatically.

No asking. No adjusting. No thought.

Just a space made, and a person welcomed into it.

Parrot stopped at the entrance.

There it was.

The moment he had promised them.

One hour. He had said one hour as if he were negotiating a hostage situation. As if he had not spent almost forty minutes helping them build the thing. As if he had not labeled the snack bowls with a marker because Spoke claimed he could not tell “sweet” from “savory” under pressure. As if he had not brought the good pillows from his room, which he would deny under oath if anyone ever mentioned it.

Ashen shoved his nose through the opening at that exact moment.

“Not you,” Parrot said.

Ashen wagged harder.

Spoke reached out and scratched behind the dog’s ears. “He’s part of the fort.”

“He will knock down the fort.”

“He is emotionally part of the fort.”

Ashen sneezed directly onto the clean sheet.

Parrot closed his eyes.

When he opened them, Flame was trying very hard not to laugh.

“You can laugh,” Parrot told him.

“I know.”

That did it.

Parrot laughed too, once and helplessly, the sound surprising him on the way out.

Spoke’s face changed.

Not uncertain this time.

Soft. Pleased.

“Come in,” he said.

It was not dramatic. It was barely more than a murmur beneath the whisper of rain beginning against the windows.

But Parrot saw the space they had left for him: between Spoke and Flame, a pocket of blankets and pillows close enough that he would be pressed against both of them. Wemmbu had stolen most of Flame’s hoodie but had not stolen the place beside him. Flame had one hand resting loosely on the sheet, palm open.

Waiting.

Parrot had spent a long time believing that being needed was the same thing as being loved.

It was an easy mistake to make.

People needed schedules. They needed dinner. They needed someone to remember that the insurance payment was due Tuesday and that Spoke could not be trusted with a ladder after sunset. Parrot was good at being useful. He liked being useful. Usefulness was solid. It had checkboxes.

Love was more complicated.

Love could not always be put in a labeled cupboard. It did not always announce itself in ways he knew how to answer. It was in Flame’s quiet “I’m listening.” It was in tea biscuits set beside the snacks because Flame remembered. It was in Spoke using a joke to ask him to stay. It was in Wemmbu teasing him until he laughed, and then falling silent when the laughter sounded real.

But this—this stupid, lopsided blanket fort, these three people looking at him like he was the part that had been missing—was not about what he could fix.

They did not need him to organize anything.

They just wanted him there.

The realization was so gentle it almost hurt.

“Fine,” Parrot said, because apparently that was all he knew how to say when something mattered too much.

Spoke beamed. “Fine?”

“Fine.”

He ducked inside.

The fort collapsed almost immediately.

One corner slid down in a slow, inevitable avalanche of floral quilt and blue blanket. Wemmbu shrieked with laughter. Spoke threw himself over the snacks to protect them, which was possibly the first useful instinct he had demonstrated all day. Ashen barked from outside like he had personally engineered the disaster.

Flame caught the falling blanket before it landed on Parrot’s head.

Of course he did.

For a second, all Parrot could see was Flame’s arm braced above him, the blanket pooled around them, everyone tangled in the cramped little space they had made.

“You okay?” Flame asked.

Parrot looked at him.

Flame’s eyes were warm, concerned in that steady way of his even though this was, objectively, a blanket emergency.

Parrot felt his smile arrive before he could stop it.

“I’m fine,” he said.

Flame studied him for half a second, like he knew exactly how much those words meant and exactly how little Parrot wanted to talk about it.

Then he smiled back.

“Good.”

Wemmbu crawled free of the blankets, hair static-charged and hoodie half inside out. “I think it needs more support beams.”

“No,” Parrot, Flame, and Spoke said together.

Wemmbu’s grin turned wicked. “Cowards.”

“We are rebuilding it,” Spoke declared, brushing a blanket off his shoulders. “Bigger. Better. Stronger.”

“Absolutely not,” Parrot said.

“Bigger,” Spoke repeated.

“Not bigger.”

“Maybe not bigger,” Flame said mildly. “But we can fix the corner.”

Parrot looked at him.

Flame looked back, entirely calm.

“You want to rebuild it,” Parrot said.

“I think Spoke would be disappointed if we didn’t.”

Spoke looked delighted. “You care about my dreams.”

“I care about you not standing on the couch arm trying to rebuild it alone.”

“Still romantic.”

Flame’s face went a little pink.

Parrot could not blame him. Spoke had that effect on people. Spoke had absolutely no shame and, more importantly, no instinct for allowing anybody else to have shame either.

Wemmbu looked between them. “I think it’s romantic that Flame is willing to risk his back for the structural integrity of your blanket home.”

“I am not risking my back,” Flame said.

“Then it’s even more romantic. You believe in the fort.”

Parrot stood up, untangling a strip of floral quilt from his ankle. “No one is rebuilding until I assess what failed.”

Three pairs of eyes turned to him.

He paused.

Then, because there were certain abysses a man only had to stare into once before accepting they had a clipboard with his name on it, Parrot said, “The collapse started at the east corner.”

Spoke blinked. “East?”

“The corner near the window.”

“That is the east corner?”

“It is from where we are standing.”

Wemmbu looked impressed. “Fort dad has a compass.”

“I do not.”

“Yet,” Spoke said.

The rebuild took another half hour.

Parrot did not participate.

He merely identified failure points, held the clothespins when everyone else’s hands were full, directed Flame toward the safest place to shift the chair, and went to fetch more pillows because the current selection was “visually unbalanced.”

At some point, he stopped insisting he was not participating.

At some point, the others stopped teasing him about it.

That was almost worse.

They just accepted him in the work of it. Made space at the couch. Handed him the blue blanket when he reached for it. Waited for his approval before attaching the last corner.

No fanfare.

No victory speech.

Just, here. This is yours too.

The rebuilt fort had two entrances, an emergency exit, and what Spoke insisted on calling “an advanced anti-Ashen defense system,” which was actually a row of pillows placed in front of the opening.

Ashen immediately stepped over them.

Spoke stared at the dog. “Betrayed by technology.”

Ashen yawned.

The second fort was better.

It was not perfect. One side still sagged. The floral quilt continued to look aggressively cheerful in a way Parrot considered deeply suspicious. The ceiling was low enough that Flame had to sit with his head tilted slightly to one side.

But it held.

And when they climbed inside again, Parrot felt something inside him loosen.

The rain had picked up outside. It tapped softly against the windows and made the daylight dim and gray, turning the inside of the fort golden with the little string lights Wemmbu had found in the craft drawer.

Parrot had not approved the string lights.

He also had not disapproved them fast enough.

They twined along the couch back, gentle and warm. The fabric ceiling scattered the light so everything beneath it looked softer: Flame’s quiet profile, the blue shadow beneath Spoke’s grin, Wemmbu’s eyes bright as he reached up to adjust a tiny bulb.

It was, Parrot reluctantly admitted, atmospheric.

Wemmbu caught him looking.

“You like it,” he said.

“I said nothing.”

“You did the face.”

“What face?”

“The one where you like something but are trying to look like you don’t because then you would have to admit we were right.”

“I don’t have a face for that.”

Flame looked at Parrot.

Parrot looked at Flame.

Flame’s mouth twitched.

“Don’t,” Parrot said.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You were going to.”

“I was going to agree with you.”

“No, you weren’t.”

Flame laughed, low and quiet.

Parrot’s heart did something unhelpful.

They began with snacks.

This was unavoidable. The snack system had been designed to prevent conflict, but it failed almost immediately because Spoke wanted the fruit gummies and Wemmbu wanted to trade chocolate-covered pretzels for the red gummies only, which Spoke claimed was “economic sabotage.”

“I made the popcorn,” Spoke said, holding the bowl possessively in his lap. “Therefore, I control the snack negotiations.”

“That is not how making popcorn works,” Parrot said.

“It is how leadership works.”

“You pressed two buttons.”

“Two very important buttons.”

Flame reached over and took one piece from the bowl. “Thank you for making it.”

Spoke stared at him for a second, then gave up the bowl entirely and scooted it into the middle of the blanket.

“Fine,” he said. “Communal popcorn.”

Wemmbu grinned. “I knew you had a soft heart.”

“Don’t tell anyone.”

“Too late.”

Parrot opened the tea biscuits and set them beside himself.

Flame glanced at him.

“You remembered,” Parrot said quietly.

Flame’s fingers brushed his wrist beneath the edge of the blanket. “Of course I did.”

The answer was so immediate. So easy.

Parrot looked at the biscuits because it was either that or look directly at Flame and risk being obvious.

“I only mentioned them once,” he said.

“I know.”

“You remember a lot.”

Flame was silent for a moment.

Then he said, “You’re worth remembering.”

Parrot’s entire body stopped cooperating.

Across from him, Wemmbu went suspiciously quiet.

Spoke, blessedly, had his mouth full of popcorn.

Parrot cleared his throat. “That was… very smooth.”

Flame blinked, as if he had not meant for it to sound like that. Color rose slowly in his face.

“I wasn’t trying to be.”

“That makes it worse,” Wemmbu announced.

Flame looked alarmed.

Wemmbu leaned further into his side. “In a good way.”

Spoke swallowed his popcorn. “Extremely good way.”

Parrot could feel his ears getting warm.

“This is why I don’t compliment any of you,” he said.

“That is a lie,” Spoke said. “You told me my shirt looked nice last week.”

“I said it was less terrible than the other shirt.”

“You meant it lovingly.”

“I did not.”

“You did,” Flame said.

Parrot looked at him.

Flame met his eyes, gentle and certain.

Parrot gave up. “Fine.”

The word made all three of them smile.

He should stop saying it.

He was never going to stop saying it.

After snacks, Spoke produced a deck of cards from somewhere inside the fort.

Parrot stared at it.

“Where did you get those?”

Spoke shrugged. “Fort magic.”

“You put them there before we started.”

“Fort magic,” Spoke repeated.

The game was supposed to be simple.

It was not.

The first round ended because Wemmbu claimed he had won due to “vibes.” The second ended because Spoke attempted to change the rules halfway through. The third ended because Flame quietly pointed out that nobody had been following the actual rules since the first card was dealt.

Parrot had expected Flame to be above it.

He was wrong.

Flame did not cheat. Flame did not need to cheat. Flame watched the game with the calm focus of someone solving a puzzle, won three hands in a row, and then looked genuinely surprised when everyone protested.

“You’re counting cards,” Spoke accused.

“I’m paying attention.”

“That’s worse.”

“Why?”

“Because you make it look peaceful.”

Wemmbu narrowed his eyes. “He’s competitive.”

Flame blinked. “I’m not.”

Spoke leaned forward. “I bet you can’t win the next round.”

Flame’s expression changed by less than an inch.

Parrot saw it anyway.

Oh no.

“I don’t need to,” Flame said.

“That means yes,” Spoke whispered.

“It does not.”

“It means yes,” Wemmbu agreed.

Parrot should have stopped them. He should have reminded everyone that cards were a recreational activity and that no person should take losing a game of Go Fish personally.

Instead, he watched Flame’s jaw set very slightly and thought, Well. This will be entertaining.

Flame won the next round.

Then the next.

Spoke accused him of witchcraft.

Wemmbu accused him of being secretly evil.

Parrot accused him of having an unfair advantage because he was “too calm.”

Flame looked at the three of them, then laughed.

Not his quiet laugh. Not the soft one he saved for when something was amusing but he did not want to interrupt it.

A full laugh.

Warm and surprised and loose enough that it filled the small space beneath the blankets.

Everyone stopped.

Flame noticed the silence and looked suddenly self-conscious. “What?”

“Nothing,” Spoke said.

Wemmbu’s whole face had gone fond. “Nothing.”

Parrot looked at Flame for one long moment.

Then he reached across the cards and took Flame’s hand.

Flame’s fingers closed around his immediately.

No hesitation.

No question.

Just there.

“Nothing,” Parrot agreed.

Flame smiled, softer this time.

The next game was declared a draw.

By late afternoon, the rain had settled in properly.

The windows blurred with water. The world outside had gone silver and indistinct, softened around the edges until the only important thing was the warm, uneven island of blankets in the living room.

Ashen had finally given up on trying to invade the fort. He slept just outside one entrance with his chin on his paws, positioned like a very furry guard who had been denied promotion but still intended to take his duties seriously.

Inside, everyone had drifted.

Spoke was on his stomach, drawing a map of the fort on the back of an old receipt. He had labeled the snack bowl The Great Pantry and the pillow pile Mount Flame.

Parrot looked over his shoulder.

“Why is that Mount Flame?”

Spoke did not look up. “Because it’s tall and safe and has a lot of blankets on it.”

Flame, who had a blanket across his lap and Wemmbu curled against his side, blinked.

Wemmbu smiled into Flame’s shoulder. “Accurate.”

“I’m not a mountain,” Flame said.

Spoke added a tiny flag to the top of the drawing. “You are now.”

Parrot should have told him not to waste receipts.

Instead, he watched Spoke carefully draw four stick figures in the center of the map.

One was broad-shouldered and labeled Flame. One had messy hair and a cape, labeled Spoke. One was upside down for no apparent reason, labeled Wemmbu. The last had a tiny square beside him that was apparently a clipboard.

Parrot stared.

Spoke looked up. “What?”

“You made me holding a clipboard.”

“You were holding one.”

“I was inspecting.”

“You were adorable.”

“I was what?”

Spoke smiled. “Nothing.”

Parrot narrowed his eyes.

Wemmbu made an interested little noise. “He said adorable.”

“I heard him.”

“Then why are you asking?”

“Because I need to know if he intends to survive the evening.”

Spoke scooted backward until his shoulder rested against Parrot’s knee. “You do look cute with the clipboard.”

Parrot looked at Flame for assistance.

Flame did not help.

Flame was looking down at the map, lips pressed together to hide a smile.

Traitor.

The worst part was that Parrot did not mind Spoke leaning against him. The worst part was that he liked the simple trust of it. Spoke always touched people like he assumed the answer would be yes. Not carelessly. Not in a way that ignored boundaries. He paid attention, more than most people realized.

But he trusted them to say no.

And he trusted them to mean yes.

Parrot rested one hand in Spoke’s hair, just briefly.

Spoke went quiet.

Then he leaned into the touch.

Wemmbu noticed. His expression gentled.

“Do you want to hear a story?” he asked.

Spoke twisted around. “A good one?”

“A great one.”

“Is it made up?”

“Obviously.”

“Then yes.”

Wemmbu sat up with the dramatic solemnity of someone preparing to address an audience from a balcony. Flame’s arm slipped away so Wemmbu could move, but his hand stayed at the small of Wemmbu’s back.

“It begins,” Wemmbu said, “with four brave explorers.”

“There are four of us,” Spoke said.

“Very observant.”

“Thank you.”

“The explorers lived in a distant land, surrounded by great and terrible dangers.”

“Like what?”

“Taxes.”

Parrot made a sound that might have been a laugh.

Wemmbu pointed at him. “Exactly. The first explorer was a powerful guardian, strong enough to carry entire mountains and kind enough to stop whenever somebody needed a break.”

Flame lowered his head, clearly trying not to smile.

“The second was a brilliant inventor and fearless adventurer.”

Spoke sat up straighter. “That’s me.”

“It is not,” Parrot said.

“It has to be.”

“The inventor’s greatest invention was a machine that made pancakes in the shape of stars.”

“It is definitely me.”

“The machine caught fire.”

Spoke considered that. “Still me.”

“The third was a dazzling rogue with unmatched charm and a mysterious past.”

Wemmbu put a hand to his own chest.

“Mysterious because nobody could remember what he said ten minutes ago,” Parrot added.

Wemmbu looked scandalized. “My past is tragic.”

“You grew up three streets over.”

“Exactly. I have seen things.”

Flame’s hand slid from Wemmbu’s back to his waist, steadying him when he leaned dramatically sideways. “And the fourth explorer?” Flame asked.

Wemmbu paused.

His eyes moved to Parrot.

“The fourth,” he said, quieter now, “knew how to get everyone home.”

The fort fell silent.

Parrot looked down at the blanket over his knees.

There it was again. The soft, terrifying sincerity that hid beneath Wemmbu’s jokes. He could say something ridiculous with his entire chest, but when he said something true, he made it almost too easy to miss.

Spoke’s shoulder bumped Parrot’s knee.

“You do,” he said.

Flame’s gaze found Parrot’s from across the dim space.

Warm. Steady.

Parrot did not know what to say to that. He did not know how to answer being seen in ways he had not prepared for.

So he reached for the nearest thing that felt manageable: Wemmbu’s hand.

Wemmbu looked down when Parrot took it.

Parrot squeezed once.

Wemmbu squeezed back.

“Your story is terrible,” Parrot said.

Wemmbu’s grin came slowly. “You loved it.”

“I tolerated it under controlled conditions.”

Spoke clutched his chest. “That’s Parrot for loved it.”

Flame’s laugh was quiet, but it stayed with Parrot long after.

The storm knocked the power out just after sunset.

One moment, the little string lights glowed gold against the blankets.

The next, the house went dark.

Spoke yelped.

Wemmbu yelped louder.

Ashen barked like the darkness had personally insulted him.

Parrot, whose systems did not currently include a blanket fort during a power outage, inhaled sharply and tried not to let it show.

Flame’s hand found his almost immediately.

Not gripping. Not demanding.

Just there.

“I’ve got you,” Flame said.

The words were low enough that only Parrot could hear them.

It was ridiculous how quickly the tension left his shoulders.

“I know,” Parrot said.

Spoke’s voice came from somewhere to Parrot’s left. “Is everyone okay?”

“I’m okay,” Wemmbu said, then after a beat, “I’m mostly okay. I was not emotionally prepared for darkness.”

“You live through nighttime every day,” Parrot said.

“That darkness has notice.”

Flame’s thumb brushed against the back of Parrot’s hand. “The flashlights are in the kitchen drawer.”

“Top left,” Parrot said automatically. “Behind the batteries.”

“I’ll get them.”

“You should not move around in the dark,” Parrot said.

Flame squeezed his hand once. “I know the way.”

Before Parrot could argue, Flame shifted carefully, guiding himself out from under the blankets. The fort rustled around him. Ashen huffed at the entrance, then followed the sound of Flame’s footsteps into the hallway.

“Flame?” Spoke called.

“I’m here.”

The response came immediately.

Always immediately.

Parrot listened to Flame moving through the house. There was a soft bump, followed by Flame saying, “Sorry,” to what was probably the wall.

Spoke made a tiny laugh.

“That sounded painful,” Wemmbu said.

“I’m okay.”

Parrot’s hand had gone empty.

He disliked the feeling more than he intended to.

Beside him, Spoke shifted closer. Their shoulders touched in the dark.

“Hey,” Spoke said softly.

Parrot looked toward the sound, though he could not see his face. “Hey.”

“Are you okay?”

Parrot almost said yes automatically.

Then he stopped.

He could hear the rain. Wemmbu’s breathing. Ashen’s claws clicking faintly on the floor in the hallway. He could feel the warmth of the blankets around them and Spoke’s shoulder against his.

“I don’t like surprises,” Parrot admitted.

Spoke’s shoulder pressed a little more firmly against his. “Me neither.”

That surprised Parrot enough that he turned his head.

Spoke’s outline was only a darker shape against the dim window light.

“I know,” Spoke continued, almost sheepish. “I make a lot of them. That’s different.”

Parrot’s mouth softened.

“Is it?”

“Yeah.” Spoke let out a breath. “When I make a surprise, I know it’s coming. When something else does it…”

He did not finish.

He did not have to.

Parrot reached through the dark and found Spoke’s hand. Spoke’s fingers closed around his at once.

Across from them, Wemmbu made a small sound. “I hate that it’s dark enough for feelings.”

Parrot laughed, surprised by it.

“Come here,” he said.

Wemmbu did not need to be told twice. He shifted across the blankets until his knee bumped Parrot’s. Then he tucked himself against Parrot’s side, warm and familiar.

“This does not mean I am scared,” Wemmbu said.

“Of course not,” Parrot replied.

“It means I am strategically close to the responsible person.”

“Very strategic.”

“And you are warm.”

“That too.”

Spoke gave a thoughtful hum. “Parrot is basically a small, angry heater.”

“I am not small.”

“You are compared to Flame.”

“Everyone is compared to Flame.”

“That is true,” Wemmbu said. “He’s basically a mountain.”

From the hallway, Flame said, “I can hear you.”

Spoke yelped again, then laughed so hard he tipped sideways into Parrot.

A beam of flashlight cut through the entrance a second later.

Flame ducked back into the fort with two flashlights, a lantern, and the emergency candle kit Parrot kept in the kitchen drawer.

Parrot looked at the supplies.

“You found everything.”

Flame smiled. “You told me where it was.”

“I know, but…”

Flame paused, then handed him one flashlight. “You make it easy.”

It was not the kind of compliment that made Parrot fluster in the same way as you’re worth remembering.

It was worse.

Because Flame meant it. Because he said it with that steady certainty, like Parrot’s care was not a burden. Like being prepared did not make him controlling or difficult or too much.

Like the systems that sometimes made Parrot feel separate from everyone else were, in fact, the threads that held them together.

Parrot looked down at the flashlight.

“Thank you,” he said.

Flame’s expression went soft. “You’re welcome.”

The lantern made the fort glow from within.

They did not light the candles. Parrot vetoed it immediately, because blankets and fire were not a combination he intended to normalize under any circumstances. No one argued.

Instead, they clustered close around the lantern, shadows moving gently across the fabric ceiling.

Outside, the rain continued.

Inside, Spoke declared the power outage “perfect fort weather.”

“It’s not perfect,” Parrot said. “The refrigerator will need checking if it stays out too long.”

“Later,” Flame said.

Parrot looked at him.

Flame’s face was lit gold in the lantern glow. He was not dismissing the concern. He would never do that. He was simply holding it for Parrot, offering to let the problem wait for an hour.

“Later,” Parrot repeated.

Wemmbu leaned into him. “Look at you. Relaxing.”

“I am not relaxing.”

“You are sitting down.”

“I was sitting down before.”

“You are sitting down emotionally.”

“That is not a real thing.”

“It is now,” Spoke said.

“I hate all of you.”

“No, you don’t,” Flame said.

Parrot looked at him.

Flame smiled.

No, Parrot thought.

No, he really didn’t.

The pillow fight began because the lantern made everyone look too peaceful.

This was Parrot’s conclusion later, after the disaster. There was no other reasonable explanation.

Spoke had been telling an increasingly implausible story about the time he had supposedly fought a raccoon behind a convenience store. Wemmbu was interrupting every few sentences to point out that the raccoon had probably just been trying to eat a dropped snack. Flame was trying, politely, to determine whether any of the story had actually happened.

Then Spoke threw a pillow at Wemmbu.

It hit him squarely in the shoulder.

Wemmbu looked down at it.

Then up.

Spoke smiled.

“Oh,” Wemmbu said. “You have chosen violence.”

“It was a warning shot.”

“That was direct contact.”

“Warning shot.”

Wemmbu picked up a pillow.

Parrot pointed at both of them. “Do not.”

They froze.

For half a second, Parrot thought he had succeeded.

Then Spoke’s grin widened.

He threw a pillow at Flame.

The pillow hit Flame gently in the side of the head.

Silence.

Absolute, reverent silence.

Flame looked down at the pillow where it had landed in his lap.

Spoke went pale.

Wemmbu whispered, “Oh, no.”

Parrot did not move.

Flame reached for the pillow.

Slowly.

Spoke backed up an inch.

“Flame,” he said carefully. “We can talk about this.”

Flame raised his eyes.

There was a smile there.

Small. Calm. Dangerous.

“You said you could beat me,” Flame reminded him.

Spoke made the strangled sound of a man who had suddenly remembered every poor decision he had ever made.

Then Flame threw the pillow.

He did not throw it hard. He did not need to. It struck Spoke in the chest with enough force to knock him backward into the blankets.

Spoke stared at the ceiling.

Then he started laughing.

It was over after that.

Wemmbu launched the next pillow. Spoke grabbed two. Flame defended himself with one arm and somehow kept the lantern upright with the other. Parrot sat perfectly still for three whole seconds, repeating to himself that he was an adult, that he had responsibilities, that he had no intention of participating in this nonsense.

Then a pillow bounced off the pile and struck him directly in the face.

The fort went quiet.

Spoke’s eyes widened.

Wemmbu slowly backed away.

Flame looked at Parrot’s raised eyebrow, then at the pillow in his hands.

“You wouldn’t,” Spoke whispered.

Parrot smiled.

It was, he thought, a very reasonable expression.

Then he hit Spoke directly in the chest.

Spoke’s delighted scream probably woke the neighbors.

The second battle did not preserve the fort.

It did not preserve the snack bowls, either, although Flame caught the popcorn before it could spill and Parrot would maintain forever that this was the only reason he joined the fight at all.

The floral quilt came down first. Then one blue blanket. Then the center support shifted enough that the entire ceiling slumped around them in a slow avalanche of fabric and pillows.

Wemmbu disappeared beneath a comforter and started laughing so hard he could barely breathe.

Spoke tried to crawl toward the exit, but Flame caught his ankle and pulled him gently backward.

“Flame!” Spoke protested, laughing.

“You started it,” Flame said.

“I made a tactical decision.”

“It was a bad one.”

Parrot, trapped beneath a corner of the gold blanket, laughed until his stomach hurt.

It had been a long time since he had laughed that freely. Not the quiet amusement he allowed himself over a clever joke. Not the careful smile he used when someone was trying to make him feel better.

This was helpless laughter. The kind that made it hard to inhale. The kind that made the whole room tilt warm and soft around the edges.

Someone’s hand found his in the blankets.

He did not know whose at first.

Then Flame’s thumb brushed over his knuckles.

Parrot turned his hand and held on.

Eventually, the fighting slowed.

Eventually, everyone was too tired to keep throwing pillows.

Eventually, the power came back with a soft click that lit the room all at once.

The collapsed fort looked terrible.

The living room looked worse.

The floral quilt had landed over Ashen, who had apparently slept through the entire war and now blinked out from beneath it with deep offense.

Spoke was flat on his back beside the couch, hair sticking up in six different directions. Wemmbu was sprawled across his legs, still wearing Flame’s hoodie. Flame sat against the couch with one knee bent, a pillow in his lap and a grin he was not bothering to hide.

Parrot was half beneath a blanket, his shoulder pressed against Flame’s.

For a few seconds, nobody spoke.

Then Wemmbu lifted one hand.

“I think,” he said weakly, “the fort needs more support beams.”

“No,” Parrot, Flame, and Spoke said together.

Wemmbu smiled.

“Cowards.”

They did not rebuild it.

Not properly.

Instead, they made a nest from the ruins.

Parrot called it a temporary arrangement. Spoke called it Fort Two: Revenge of Fort Parrot Is Extremely Fun And Loves Us. Wemmbu wanted to name it The Blankets of Our Forefathers. Flame, wisely, refused to vote.

They brought the couch cushions back down. They gathered the blankets into one oversized pile in front of the couch. Flame moved the armchair back into place. Parrot checked that the lamp was where it belonged and that nothing had broken.

Nothing had.

Well. Nothing important.

A clothespin had gone missing. Parrot suspected Ashen.

The snack bowls were still mostly intact. The popcorn had survived. The fruit gummies were gone, which Spoke denied responsibility for with the guilty confidence of a man whose tongue was still faintly red.

By the time the clock reached midnight, the storm had faded to a soft hush against the glass.

The house was warm again. The lights were low. The ruined fort had become a tangle of blankets and pillows on the floor.

Flame lay on his back beneath the heap, one arm around Wemmbu and the other stretched behind Parrot’s shoulders. Spoke had fallen asleep half on Flame’s chest and half on the floor, which looked uncomfortable enough to make Parrot’s spine ache just seeing it. Wemmbu’s fingers were loosely hooked around Parrot’s sleeve, his breathing slow and even.

Ashen had claimed the spot near their feet, where he could be close without risking someone rolling onto him.

Parrot was awake.

Not because he had work to finish. Not because there was a list waiting for him. Not because he needed to make sure nobody had left a candle burning or a window open.

Just awake, in the dark, listening to the breathing of the people he loved.

There was a different kind of quiet in a house full of people.

Not empty quiet.

Not the quiet that meant something was wrong or that Wemmbu had vanished with suspicious intent.

This was the quiet after laughter. After the last dishes had been washed. After everybody had found their way, without needing to be asked, into the same room.

Parrot looked at Spoke first.

His face was relaxed in sleep, all the restless brightness of him gone soft. One hand was curled loosely in Flame’s shirt. Even unconscious, he had found a way to make sure he was touching someone.

Then Wemmbu.

The hoodie sleeves still covered his hands. His hair was a mess. He had a tiny crease between his eyebrows that only showed when he was tired, and Parrot reached out to smooth it before he could think better of it.

Wemmbu made a little sound and curled more firmly against Flame.

Flame’s arm tightened around him automatically.

Then Flame.

Flame was awake too.

Parrot knew because when he shifted, Flame’s gaze moved to him in the dim light.

“You okay?” Flame whispered.

The question made something tender turn over in Parrot’s chest.

He almost answered automatically. I’m fine.

It was the phrase he used when he was overwhelmed, embarrassed, tired, affectionate, worried, and, occasionally, actually fine. A useful phrase. A safe phrase. Flexible enough to keep anyone from looking too closely.

But Flame was looking at him gently, not pushing. Just asking.

And there was nowhere else Parrot wanted to be.

“Yeah,” he said, quieter. “I’m good.”

Flame watched him for a moment.

Then he reached behind Parrot’s shoulders, found his hand again, and threaded their fingers together.

“I’m glad,” Flame said.

Parrot swallowed.

The ruined fort was all around them. There was no structure left to speak of. Just blankets and pillows and four people who had started the day with stupidity.