MC - CHP 19 pt 1

Chapter Nineteen – La Boucle est Bouclée




The moment stretched on, folding in on itself.
It occurred to Xeeva that she shouldn’t be surprised, before she realised that she wasn’t.
Her friends hadn’t seen her.
They also, as it happened, had not invited her.
Her vision sunk inside her head, putting up blinders to eliminate the cafe and its bustle from her periphery, shrinking her focus to the table across from her.
Xeeva and her friends always went out for coffee and cake after the last day of school, it was a long held tradition. But today, no one had been free. Something about Pip’s parents having gone away, and Liz’s mother picking the two of them up early. Kath’s boyfriend had had an emergency, and Celine thought she might be getting a migraine.
And yet here they were, their school blazers hung over their chairs, and their bags and satchels littered around their feet. And here Xeeva was, having made the most justified decision imaginable to buy a large hot chocolate for the chilling journey back to the city.
Her friends broke out into giggles, and the sound reached her like it had reverberated across tin.
Instinctively, Xeeva wanted to leave, but it was a brief impulse, and then rage blossomed in its place. It surged through her limbs like a puppet-master, and she let it carry her across the cafe.
'Hey, Kath,' she said, the ice in her voice putting the air outside to shame.
She knew there was no need to address the others, Kath would be grinding this organ. Sure enough, as they each turned to her in horror, it was only Kath whose expression progressed to darkness.
Xeeva wasn't going to look at Celine; she made her a pink and blonde blot in the corner of her eye. Celine; who had been her friend since fourth grade.
'Not the best plan,' she said, pulling her mouth into a grin. 'Having a secret meeting in the only cafe between school and the tram stop. What inspired the effort? You've been muttering to the others for years now, so why today?' She heard her voice changing, heard a fraction of desperation enter it, but knew it wasn't enough to give her away. 'Why not just push on through, and then forget to contact me all winter, as per usual?'
Her words were not having the impact on Kath she'd hoped for. Nothing in Kath's face told Xeeva she was afraid of her; she clearly did not feel she'd done anything wrong.
'What's your fucking problem, huh?' Xeeva heard Iggy's rough Fringe accent leave her mouth, and knew that this time, her fear had shown on her face.
'My problem?' Kath's expression twisted into derision. 'I really don't know what kind of treatment you expect, Xeeva, after lying to us for, well,' she shrugged theatrically, 'the entire time we've known you.'
Xeeva stalled, trying to stop her eyebrows from dipping in confusion. When had she lied?
'So, yeah, I'll give it to you that today wasn't exactly well-executed, but, y'know, we just decided enough was enough. You've never given any of us any credit as friends, we're just... people to hide amongst, huh?'
Kath's grey eyes were strange, triumphant.
'What the fuck are you talking about?' Xeeva opened her palms, and the healing cut on her right hand constricted – she understood, but too late – Kath's mouth was open again.
'You're Cynimpial,' Kath said, like she didn't believe it. 'Why didn't you tell us?'
Xeeva stared at her, wondering whether there was still floor beneath her, as she felt strangely weightless.
'Oh, and rumour has it you're fucking your brother, but that was unsubstantiated,' Kath's tone edged on laughter, and beside her, Pip's mouth twitched.
A toneless voice in Xeeva's head offered: a Cyn would fuck their brother.
As long as she'd known her, Kath had been jealous of Xeeva. Envious of her grades, her looks, the attention she garnered from teachers and boys. She had always been the first to prove Xeeva wrong if opportunity arose, or interject with her opinion if she felt Xeeva had had too much to say.
But now she'd taken ground Xeeva couldn't recover. She held no fear because, to her, Xeeva wasn't Xeeva anymore, she was just a Cyn. Xeeva understood this in the way her breathing felt slow and ineffectual, and her injured hand began to throb. She couldn't put the understanding into thoughts or words, but she'd found clarity none-the-less.
It was there in the way Celine's eyes never left her lap.
'Kath, you do know your ears are bigger than mine, right?' Xeeva offered, her words surfacing from somewhere beyond her control.
I'm not a Cyn, I'm me, and I will always be smarter than you.
'And your nose,' she paused, smiling without feeling it. 'Your nose is a few shades off shit.'
Kath's face contorted with anger.
'So I'm Imp,' she murmured. 'What are you?'
Xeeva's chest tightened; she didn't have an answer.
'Y'know, it's pretty fitting,' Kath crossed her arms, leaning back and brushing loose hair from her face. 'That you have to keep your tail between your legs to hide it. That's where it'd be anyway, huh?'
In her mind's eye, Xeeva saw herself launch at Kath in much the same way she'd launched at Tyler. She had it on good faith now knuckles were adept at splitting lips.
But she would have to return to school with Kath next year, and she was already on the principle's radar.
So instead of opening up Kath's face, Xeeva adjusted her bag on her shoulder and recalled the location of the door.
'Celine,' she said, and Celine looked up, hurt and confusion written on her face. Xeeva made her eyes hard, feeling the effort it took not to break at the familiarity of Celine's face.
'Fuck you,' Xeeva told her, meaning it, and it drove home, a sheen of tears brightened in Celine's eyes. She was sorry, the words were in her throat, but Xeeva was already in the street before Celine managed to swallow them.


The streets became a tram, and the tram became the apartment building lobby, and the lobby became stairs.


She noted that her fingers shook as she turned her key in the lock. She pushed through the door, shutting it behind her with more force than intended, kicking off her shoes and leaving them when they fell short of the shoe rack.
She wanted tea, wanted something to distract from her heartbeat.
She was so angry.
The television was on – a video game – Iggy must be lying on the couch, unseen.
He and Harry had not attended their final school assembly. Harry had come down with a bad cold, and Iggy had sneered when asked if he was going. When Xeeva asked him, he had refused to acknowledge she’d spoken.
She thought about yelling at him, but she didn't know what to yell.
It came to her as the kettle boiled, the words she’d cyclically rehearsed for him and then discarded. She fought the urge, tried to tell herself she’d grown beyond this now. But she was furious with him, and with her friends, and those facts were knitting together as sure as a seam as she stood there.
… rumour has it you're fucking your brother.
She ripped her tea bag trying to untangle it from its fellows in the tin, and that was that. She strode into the lounge, sparing a thought to Harry and Cam in their rooms, wondering if she was capable of keeping her voice low.
Without looking at Iggy, Xeeva crouched swiftly to the console, shutting it off.
‘Hey, what the fuck?’
And now he was furious. Good.
She turned to him, anticipating he would falter at the sight of her face; exultant when he did.
‘When we started doing this,’ she stood straight and tall. ‘You told me I wasn't allowed to be upset without telling you the reason why.’ She waited out a particularly blistering wave of unhappiness, not wanting to impede on her clarity.
He was openly afraid. His eyebrows were jutted in indignance, his ears on his neck, and as he sat up, his arms holding the controller sunk in against his ribs, defensive.
‘So quid pro quo, asshole.’ She felt deep triumph, knowing she'd said it exactly how she wanted, seeing that the curse had stung him.
‘Let me know when you feel like telling me,’ she continued with false lightness. ‘Because until then I've fucking had it with you.’
There. His face slackened, opening up, devastation in his eyes before he could stop himself. She watched him try to hide it, and she watched him fail.
She left the room, wishing her tail was untucked, wanting him to see it raised and still.
Her tail. Her tail.
She was in her room without her tea, crying silently into her pillow – but it didn't feel silent, it just felt like the sounds wouldn't come, like she couldn't breathe.
She'd been tucking her tail so long she'd almost forgotten why she did it. She'd forgotten about when she'd been younger and less at ease; she had never changed her clothes in front of her friends, never slept over at their houses, never gone without socks.
Somewhere along the way she'd stopped caring if people knew, but she'd maintained the routine of hiding.
Iggy had always been worse off. Her role had been defending him, whether it was snapping at her friends for judging him, or staring down gawking strangers, or standing up to Tyler–
She hadn’t ever considered Tyler might tell, but if he’d spread the word far enough that it had reached her friends, the whole school would know.
Maybe they would treat her like Iggy now.
Her crying tore at her a little less, and she allowed herself to draw breath.
She sat up, pulling off her school stockings, rubbing a hand over the velvet skin of her foot and then untucking her tail.
Her tail was the reason her father had given her up, and maybe he’d been right. Maybe she would have been better off drowned.


Xeeva knew her face was swollen, but she was hungry. Her experience of dinner extended no further than her plate, like those who sat around her were behind thick glass. Occasionally Iggy drew her eye, but she resisted, knowing he also sat in a world of his own. Cam asked questions, so did Harry, and Xeeva answered, making no excuses but offering no explanations, either.
The food helped.
In her bed she set her palms to her cheeks, slapping some sting into them. It was the holidays now, she had ice cream to eat, movies to watch and study to do. Nothing was going to change. She wasn’t just going to be Dux next year, she was going to make it into the top percentile of the Mainland. She did not need school friends to do that; in fact, they had always been more of a hindrance to her concentration than anything else.
Her mind continued turning as she sought sleep, but she washed it away with the rush of blood in her ears.
She felt like she’d been ripped from a dream, and she had no desire to go back.




‘I don’t mind,’ Harry whispered, and his grip on Farrere’s hand was slackening, no matter how hard Farrere clung to him.
Everything seemed grey except for the blood, and the butter knife gleaming silver beside them.
Farrere was waking up.
His arm burned, and burned.
Was he wet because of the water, or the blood? Harry had told him not to swim. This was his fault. It was always his fault.
‘Harry...’
Had he said his name aloud?
Harry would die if Farrere let him go. He was already dead. The cogs were churning through the ocean like a gigantic mill of iron – the water was brackish, caustic. A tide cloudy with rust touched Harry’s bare feet.
And it melted him away.
It melted–
Farrere got his eyes open. Sheets and pale winter light. No ocean, no cogs.
Decembre was a curse, every night of it had been the same. There was no variation to the dreams now; no pill, no dark-eyed stranger, no figures – just Harry, bleeding, and Farrere–
He had the side of his hand in his mouth, unaware he’d put it there, and he was biting down on the soft flesh of his palm. He tugged his hand away, seeing the deep teeth marks, glad palms didn’t easily bruise.
Salt sweat, salt water; the fresh water from the shower never touched him now, like he went everywhere with a film of salt on him. It weighed down his eyelids, trying to force them closed, trying to force him back.


By noon he was always fine. Or, at least, he was fairly certain he was.
His baseline for “fine” might have altered in the past months. Once, maybe, it meant being well-rested, getting enough exercise, enough food, enough sunlight.
Now it meant icing the skin under his eyes in the mornings just long enough to convince people he wasn't a corpse, and drinking enough coffee to wake him if he were.
He had charged into Decembre headlong, determined to find the right moment to tell Monica they couldn’t be together – but the news of her friend’s illness weighed on Monica so palpably it was all Farrere could do not to hold her every time he saw her.
It didn’t help that work had taken on an unprecedented atmosphere of disaster. They would meet with the Chinese on Monday, and in the meantime the Embassy had come down on them like hail. There would be reparations, enough so that Farrere had very quickly come to realise his power play hadn’t been as weighty as he’d calculated. If he failed to secure a secondary deal as significant as their current one before negotiations concluded, Farrere had a creeping feeling the Embassy would shut them down.
But it didn’t matter.
It did, but not today.
Today, he was going to buy a Christmas tree. The rest of his problems could wait; they were used to it.
Not even the sight of Harry's fluish face was going to stall him. Something rattled about in his head, demanding he offer Harry cashmere scarves, lemon-honey tea, and Thierry's favourite chicken dumpling soup; but he made no reply, other than to remind himself to take his growing number of daily vitamins and supplements.
He couldn't get sick now, work was too frantic, and given that every night he spent several hours clutching Harry in his arms, he was just asking to catch his cold.
He got halfway to laughing, and then wondered if that logic had actually been awry. The past few days he'd been expecting blood when he looked at Harry, and, once or twice, he'd caught himself harbouring the urge to reach for Harry's hand when he passed him in the hall.
As he’d feared, the dreamscape was bleeding into reality.
He felt like they'd been on some arduous journey together, and he couldn't understand why Harry didn't remember it.
But by midday he would be fine. He would be fine.
'Ok, ok, ok,' he muttered quickly to himself, dicing the last piece of parmesan rind he would be using in tonight's soup. The other ingredients, vegetables and pancetta, had been cubed and bagged, not neatly, but the task was done. He stored the lot in the fridge, washed his hands, and moved into the lounge.
'Has Iggy been out today?' he asked Harry.
'He might've, I only got up at ten,' Harry looked up from his book, absently stroking Ermi's head. The only times Farrere had seen Harry without Ermi since her return home had been mealtimes, otherwise she was always with him, still feeble, but slowly regaining health.
They made for a sorry looking pair right now, though.
'Do you want tea?' Farrere tried his best not to make it sound like the offer hurt him. 'Or l-lemon-honey, for your throat,' the stammering didn’t help.
'It's ok,' Harry shook his head.
'Ok,' Farrere reminded himself not to stare. He turned. 'Ok, ok, ok,' he made his way down the hall.
He rapped the backs of his fingers sharply against Iggy's door.
'What?' came the voice from within.
Farrere nearly smiled. He sounds like I feel.
'It's me,' he said.
There was a long pause.
'And?'
'Get up, we're going to pick up a Christmas tree,' he answered simply.
The pause was longer this time.
'Uh, no,' Iggy's voice had become more muffled.
Farrere opened his door, stepping fluidly inside.
'Hey,' Iggy said, unimpressed, looking for all the world like he'd made himself a nest out of his blankets and become trapped in them.
'Come on, get up, get dressed, we're going,' Farrere knew he was overstepping more than one boundary by behaving this way, but he’d forgone sensitivity.
Iggy's red-eyed state of dishevelled moping had become frankly annoying. If Farrere could give up decent sleep for a few months without having a psychotic break, then Iggy could make an effort for one afternoon.
'It's Saturday,' Farrere added, unyeilding, as Iggy made movements that were paradoxically fussy and leaden.
'So what?' he hissed, pushing back distinctly-unwashed hair from his eyes.
'It's "Get a Christmas Tree Day",' Farrere elaborated.
'Dude, what?' Iggy rubbed his eyes.
'I need you to help me pick up a Christmas tree,' Farrere couldn't help the sarcastically laboured tone, as much as he knew it was cruel.
'Why are...' Iggy stopped rubbing his eyes and looked at him. 'Why the fuck are you picking up a Christmas tree?'
'Because it's Christmas!'
'I fucking know that! Where are we going to put it? We don't have room! How are we gonna fucking get it up here?' Iggy came alive in an instant, kicking away his blankets, sitting forward in a flash of mauve skin and scruffy tail.
'We will put it in the elevator, or, failing that, we'll carry it up the stairs.' Farrere crossed his arms. He’d never decided he was going to get his way with Iggy before, and the certainty was wonderfully liberating.
'Up the...' Iggy's face went blank. 'Aw, screw you, what do we need a tree for?'
'Because I want one,' Farrere said, and he saw his immaturity stun Iggy into silence. 'So get up. You've got five minutes.'
And he returned to the kitchen, pretending not to notice Harry side-eyeing him with unshielded concern.
Five minutes had definitely passed by the time Iggy dragged himself into the lounge, but he had pushed back his hair and pulled on an appropriate amount of clothing. He looked more baffled than he did mutinous, which was saying something.
'Farrere, where are we gonna put it?' he appealed.
'There,' Farrere pointed to the corner of the lounge beside the television.
'Well, then it had better be a small one,' Iggy said haughtily. 'Even small ones are gonna be way too wide for that spot, but if you want one, you want one,' he shook his head, his sarcasm biting.
'Are you allowed real Christmas trees in high-rise apartments?' Harry asked quietly.
'I don't see why not,' Farrere said, avoiding his eye.
‘Why don’t we get a plastic one?’ Iggy shrugged.
Farrere gave him a look that clearly said he wasn’t going to dignify that question with an answer. Iggy rolled his eyes, scornful.
'There's no way we're carrying it up the stairs, it's gonna have to fit in the elevator,' he tugged some balled thick socks out of his jumper pocket, pulling them on.
'Oh, come on, you're strapping, put it to use,' Farrere waved his comment away, and drew his car keys out of his pocket.
'Wait,' Iggy said, staring at his keys. 'We're picking it up in the Aston?'
'Oui, unless you've got some other vehicle.'
Iggy lifted his eyes from Farrere's keys to Farrere's face and stared at that instead.
'One can only assume you anticipate the problem,' he said slowly.
'I do,' Farrere nodded. 'We're going to tie it to the roof.'
Iggy exchanged a look with Harry, then returned his eyes to Farrere, deadpan.
'Ok, sure,' he sighed. 'Whatever.'
'Let's go, then,' Farrere said.
Iggy lifted his hands briefly in exasperated awe, and moved past Farrere to the front door.
Farrere dallied long enough to give Harry what he hoped was a cheery wave, but in reality the movement was awkward and brittle, and Harry looked at him like he was considering reading him his last rites.
Farrere checked his watch as he left the apartment, Iggy scuffing the carpet with his boots in his wake.
It was ten past twelve.
Any minute now he was going to be fine.




'You're a fucking lunatic,' Iggy said considerately, surveying the Christmas trees before them.
'Oh, well.' Farrere said lightly.
'Really, dude, I've never met anyone more into Christmas than you. I thought Harry was bad, but you...' Iggy lifted his eyebrows.
Farrere walked on, choosing not to hear Iggy, worry nesting in his stomach; these trees really were far too big.
That shouldn't surprise him, he’d driven nearly forty minutes to where he and Roland had bought their overly stately trees for Benjamin Square. It was a plot of commercial pines a little out of the way, but still within sight of suburbia. Even at several miles distance, the snow-dusted neoclassical mansions of Benjamin Square looked odious.
'This area is ridiculous,' Iggy muttered, following Farrere’s gaze.
'Sure is,' Farrere agreed darkly, tightening his scarf. It was warmer today, but in winter that meant very little to him. Below freezing was beyond tolerance.
'Maybe we could just, like, cut one in half,' Iggy suggested, his focus returned to the trees.
Farrere registered that Iggy was quite enjoying this, despite his prolonged silences in the car, and the mulish way his shoulders were hunched. There was colour in his cheeks from the cold, and his ears were twitching under his beanie. Farrere suspected that even commercial pines was enough to cheer him. If they smelled wonderful to Farrere, they must smell even better to Iggy.
'That's not a bad idea,' Farrere said considerately. 'Provided we cut it in half here and not back home.'
'Nah, that's too cruel, forget I said it,' Iggy mumbled, starting forward again. 'There'll be a weedy one in here somewhere.'
'Perhaps we should just ask the owner,' Farrere said as they about-faced to make their way down another row.
'Where's your sense of adventure?' Iggy sniffed.
Farrere snorted, and upon inhaling, was struck with the undeniable need for a cigarette.
Putain, he thought, this is getting out of hand.
He balled his hands at his sides, resisting the knowledge that he probably had a packet of cigarettes somewhere in this coat. He abstained on the basis that he didn't want to pollute Iggy’s brief haven of clean air. And perhaps because he was afraid Iggy might report him to Cam.
'Hey, hey,' Iggy beckoned him forward, pointing at a tree.
'It's huge,' Farrere said, catching up to him.
'Nah,' Iggy grinned, indicating behind the tree. In the shadows cast by two lush trees stood a pine that clearly lived in spite of some genetic mishap. It was a quarter of the height of the other trees, slightly anemic, and its top was bent at forty-five degrees.
'Oh, yeah,' Farrere said lowly. 'That's our tree.'
Iggy had cocked his head to align his eye with the tree's bend, smiling at it pityingly.
'The guy's gonna think we're full of shit,' Iggy said, grinning.
'He can't argue with business,' Farrere said.
The balding and bad-tempered owner of the plot definitely did think they were full of shit, Farrere readily observed. And if he’d been thinking it clearly when they requested the little tree, he was nigh hissing it when he saw their car.
'You have tow ropes,' he observed flatly when Farrere produced a bundle of them from the boot.
'I was planning on opening the back windows and passing the ropes through the cabin to...' Farrere trailed off, fighting a smile at the look on the man's face. 'To tie the tree to the roof,’ he finished.
'You're not partial to your paint job, then?' the owner asked gruffly.
'No,' Farrere said solemnly. 'But I do have a picnic blanket under the backseat.'
'Do you?' Iggy marveled. 'How come you never whipped that out before?'
'You never asked,' Farrere put back.
The owner bowed out after that, pretending to take a call on his mobile, before wending his way back to his portable office.
The tree was awkward, but not heavy, and once they'd positioned it on the picnic blanket it was easy to lift atop the car. Iggy emitted periodic chuckles throughout.
'He thinks we're dumb rich kids,' he said. He paused, squinting over the roof of the car at Farrere. 'Well,' he added significantly.
'Hm,' Farrere said, acknowledging Iggy's jibe with an ironic nod. 'If only we were kids, this behaviour would be justifiable.'
'Yeah,' Iggy lowered his eyes.
It put Farrere's mind back fifteen minutes to when Iggy had averted his eyes as the plot owner felled the little tree. Farrere didn't want to think of Iggy as naive, but as that was the label Farrere had always been given, he had no other word for it. He wanted to retract his statement, somehow reassure Iggy that of course they were children, but he felt it would be too close to a lie.
He ventured around to Iggy's side of the car, checking the ropes were even.
'It's going to be a cold drive home,' he grumbled, eyeing the open windows.
'Farrere, stop,' Iggy said sharply. Farrere looked at him in alarm – and he let his right hand fall limply from his left wrist, previously unaware it had been there.
'What is it, a bug bite?' Iggy asked.
Farrere registered what Iggy was seeing: the confronting redness around his watch. He'd taken to scratching his wrist whenever it itched, which, judging by his broken skin, must be often.
'An allergic reaction,' Farrere said smoothly, wanting to smile at the appropriateness of the lie. 'To new fabric softener, I think. I need to wash my sheets.'
'Ah. You sleeping any better?' Iggy's eyes were on his feet as he kicked up some snow.
Farrere watched his face, fascinated and afraid.
'Not really,' Farrere spun his car keys deliberately around his finger, wanting the chime of them to signify it was time to head home.
Iggy opened the passenger door so promptly Farrere nearly started. They climbed inside the car.
'Maybe we should just not go home,' Iggy said dryly, fiddling with the frayed pull cord of his jacket. He had one foot up and resting on the dashboard, his knee rocking restlessly.
'Why's that?' Farrere asked in spite of knowing the answer.
Iggy's cheeks coloured.
'Y'know, cause you're still not sleeping, and everything's a bit shit.'
'A Christmas tree will help,' Farrere's hand was rested on the keys in the ignition. Iggy flicked his eyes to him, twitched the corners of his mouth, and pushed his back deeper into his seat, retreating.
Connard, Farrere cursed himself.
'I take it you and Xeeva are still at odds?' Farrere disliked the sternness that emerged from his mouth. What was he in this situation? A friend? An elder? Why couldn't he be adept at this like Phil?
Iggy threw him a pitying look.
'Oh, wow, nothing gets past you,' he said.
Farrere huffed, looking out the window, dropping his hand from the ignition.
‘She seemed pretty upset last night,’ he said heavily. Iggy shrank deeper into his seat. 'What are you fighting about?'
'I dunno,' Iggy said at length. 'She's fed up with me.'
Farrere considered this. 'Why has it take her this long to decide that? I mean,' Farrere added hastily at Iggy's unguarded reproach. 'I mean, that seems unlikely. You're her family, she's not actually allowed to get fed up with you.'
'Yes, she is, if I'm being a prat,' Iggy growled.
'Are you being a prat?'
Iggy stopped fiddling with the pull cord, staring at his hands.
'Well, then don't be a prat,' Farrere said simply.
'Do they use Enuin in Nielle?' Iggy demanded, every bit like it was related to the current topic.
Farrere blinked at him.
'Yes,' he said slowly, frowning. 'Why?'
'Like, how much?' Iggy pressed.
'Not that much, I suppose, particularly not in the CBD.'
'Hm,' Iggy grunted, his rocking knee finally losing pace.
'Were you thinking of going to university there?'
Iggy's eyes flashed, picking up an impressive amount of colour in spite of the light around them being white and grey.
'Nah,' he said, vanquishing his intensity. 'I don't think I'm gonna go to uni. I've applied, but...' he shrugged.
'Did you... did you not get the finals average you wanted?' Farrere wasn't sure whether to keep his gaze on him or look away. He had been fairly certain Iggy's morose ways were entirely attributable to Xeeva, but he’d also taken note when exam results came out and no one said anything – well, no one said anything to him.
'No, I did fine, I got ninety-four, but–'
'Ninety– Iggy! That's–' Farrere stammered.
'Who cares?' Iggy muttered.
'Me,’ Farrere said hotly. ‘I care!'
'That doesn't mean I have to do something with it.'
'My caring, or your average?' Farrere mocked primly. 'Of course you don't have to go to uni if you don't want to, but Iggy, that's a good score, and you should be proud.'
'Yeah, yeah,' Iggy shook his head, almost smiling. 'Even more impressive given I missed an exam.'
'When did you miss–?'
'It doesn't matter, I don't wanna go to uni.'
'Will you work instead?' Farrere asked uncertainly.
'I guess so,' Iggy sighed.
Something unsaid and painful suspended itself between them. How likely was it an employer in the city would see Iggy's finals score instead of his race?
'Fancy working at TripleTech?' Farrere said lightly. 'You can have my job.'
Iggy uttered a humourless chuckle.
‘Seriously, though, anything involving high-profile industries, I’ll get you in,’ Farrere said, a little too fiercely. He regretted it, it was an acknowledgement of the costly fight it would take to see Iggy into a white collar role.
Iggy seemed untroubled, either way.
‘I’ll let you know if I discover any life direction,’ he said.
It was Farrere’s turn to fidget. He swiped some dust from the dashboard with gloved hands, avoiding Iggy’s eye.
‘Hey,’ he began slowly, sensing Iggy’s instant trepidation. ‘How did Harry go with his exams? Has he told you?'
‘Yeah,’ Iggy said, relieved. ‘He–’ Iggy stopped, his eyes sharpening. ‘Why haven’t you asked him yourself?’
There was no accusation to his tone, only curiousity, but Farrere’s blood drained inward, hitting his core with a thud that nearly rocked him. It slung his heart into his throat, pounding against his larynx.
‘Oh, I...’ he managed a light tone, but what reason could he give? ‘I didn’t want to pry,’ he said, very aware of the car door beside him. Perhaps he should run.
‘Yeah, but you asked me, super pry-ing-ly,’ Iggy narrowed his eyes in a way that was worse than nightmares.
The fear drilled deeper into Farrere, in seconds he wouldn’t be able to breathe.
‘What’s your problem with him? You keep looking at him like he scares you,’ Iggy was instantly embarrassed by his choice of words, they had been honest and automatic. ‘Well, like you don’t want to look at him, or something.’
‘I don’t...’ Farrere paused, aware he had begun too quickly. ‘Have a problem with him,’ he slowed his words, casual, unafraid, fine.
‘Ok,’ Iggy said, frustrated. ‘Just… be extra nice to him right now, ok? He’s really upset about leaving his friends, and about Ermi.’
‘Getting sick as well was hardly fair,’ Farrere said softly.
‘Yeah,’ Iggy said.
‘Then we’re in agreement,’ Farrere soldiered on, turning the keys in the ignition, focusing on pulling away from the curb, and not on Iggy’s unadulterated suspicion drilling into the side of his head.




I always think colds are alright until I have one. I forget their little details, like the way they make my finger joints ache, and how swallowing takes a break from being unconscious to become excruciating instead.
Ermi was a great comfort. She was still weak, but each day saw her moving more. Since bringing her home with Cam I let her out of her cage as much as possible, carrying her with me as I migrated between my room to the lounge. I'll be honest and say I'm not sure she'll recover, so I want her to have as much fun as possible.
Although I don't know how much fun it is for her to be sitting on my chest whilst I cough and watch terrible day time TV.
An infomercial is beseeching me to consider lightening my nose with over the counter bleach. I'd be more interested if it was a growth serum.
You’re strapping.
Farrere’s words to Iggy. Perhaps if I were “strapping” he’d have asked me to go with him to pick up the tree. The fact he hadn’t reaffirmed he was never listening when I mentioned wanting to buy Christmas stockings. He hadn’t been listening to me much at all; he looked right through me half the time I spoke to him these days.
I stared into the middle distance for a few minutes, debating between being sad and doing something.
‘Ermi,’ I lifted her to my chin, putting my lips on the soft fur between her ears. ‘Ok,’ I said to her, holding her to me as I stood. I ventured down the hall to Xeeva’s door, knocking. She answered promptly and brightly, which was a relief. Last night she and Iggy had been displaying clear signs of a fight in which she hadn’t come off well. I opened her door.
‘Xee, what are you doing?’ I groaned, dismayed at the sight of her at her desk with a law textbook in front of her.
‘Catching Articuno,’ she said, lifting her hitherto unseen Gameboy. ‘And reading about Harper versus the Thresh Corp guys,’ she admitted, wrinkling her nose.
‘Well, catching Articuno is pretty important,’ I allowed. ‘But do you want to go buy tinsel?’
‘Harry, don’t hang tinsel everywhere,’ she pleaded.
‘No, for the tree,’ I appealed.
‘We haven’t got one,’ her focus shifted when Todd uncurled on her bed and stood, stretching. He leapt neatly to the floor and padded to me, curling around my leg and chirping, looking up at Ermi.
‘She’s still ok,’ I told him, smiling.
Easily the best thing that has happened in about six solid months is just how wrong we all were about Todd. When Ermi came home from the vet, he took to following me whenever I had her out, mewling and demanding to see her, not eat her, as we discovered. Cam had posed the well-received theory that on the evening Ermi had gotten sick, Todd had been calling us to help. In gratitude, I sometimes allowed him to sit next to me on the couch and rub his head on Ermi, although he wasn’t very good at being delicate about it.
He mashed his whiskers into my leg in that fashion now, nearly making me sidestep.
‘What a loser,’ Xeeva said affectionately.
‘Farrere’s out picking up a Christmas tree,’ I told her, back on topic.
Xeeva’s expression deadened into suffering.
‘What a loser,’ she repeated firmly.
‘No tinsel?’ I asked, flashing her a smile.
‘Articuno,’ she whined, lowering her ears. ‘Also it’s cold outside.’
‘Ok,’ I chuckled. ‘I’ll ask Cam.’
‘She’s not here, she’s at her Christmas thing,’ Xeeva reminded me. I uttered a scoff that turned into several coughs at my forgetfulness. ‘I suppose you could ask… Iggy,’ Xeeva added, trying to make her timing as sarcastic as possible, but her misery was plain.
‘Did he… talk to you yesterday?’
Xeeva mutely shook her head, looking drawn for a moment.
‘He’s with Farrere,’ I told her, by way of something to say.
‘I hope a tree falls on him,’ she said plainly, setting her chin in her palm. 'Have fun buying tinsel.'
'I will,' I turned out of her doorway.
'Stay warm, Harry,' she called after me, serious. 'You probably shouldn't be going outside yet.'
I called back my thanks, dwelling on my worry. I settled Ermi back in her cage, added several layers of clothing to my attire, and headed out.
It felt bitterly cold to me in my current state, but thankfully there wasn't much wind, and I only had to walk a block to the nearby Tellmans. Tellmans for the most part was a grocery chain, but during the holiday period they stocked a respectable amount of decorations.
I spent a long time mulling over the selection, distantly enjoying the Christmas carols. Tellmans was cheap, but I had very little of my savings left. If Farrere hadn't paid for Ermi's vet costs I would have no money at all. It was this thought that ensured I bought him some Christmas themed cookie cutters, as well as tinsel, lights, and some garish baubles.
Halfway home I stopped dead in order to hate myself. I couldn't decide what was more stupid, buying the cookie cutters in the first place, or considering going back and returning them.
In the end the feeling of being very cold and probably feverish eclipsed the feeling of being an idiot.
It was hard not to smile at the scattering of pine needles in the apartment building lobby. According to the trail, they had successfully fit the tree into the elevator.
I let myself into the apartment to the tune of Iggy and Farrere arguing. I hovered in the hall, listening.
'Surely it would've been achievable to do it without scuffing the carpet,' Farrere was whining.
'You told me to move the couch, so I moved it, if you want to give instructions, you need to anticipate the consequences,' Iggy fired back.
'Will you help me get it into the stand?'
'I dunno, will you get shitty if that involves "scuffing" the carpet?'
I didn't need to see Iggy mime inverted commas to know that he had.
'Hello,' I announced myself timidly.
'Oh, hey,' Iggy said, turning to me, his hands on his hips and a liveliness in his eyes I hadn't seen since the formal.
'Harry,' Farrere said, aghast, and my ears shot straight to my neck. Before I could stammer, he gushed: 'Were you outside?'
'Yes,' I confessed slowly.
'But you're–' Farrere began, strained, but Iggy cut him off.
'He's alright, Farrere,' he said, with a touch of darkness.
Farrere looked between us, his face colouring, and he seemed to lose the ability to speak.
'What'd you go out for?' Iggy eyed my shopping bag.
'Oh, um, tinsel,' I held the bag out for him, my heart picking up pace when Farrere looked considerably more speechless.
'Cool baubles,' Iggy grinned, fishing through the bag. 'A solid nine out of ten on the disgustinly Christmassy scale.'
'I thought so,' I forced a smile. 'I'll be surprised if the lights work, they were that cheap.'
'Ah,' Iggy reached the bottom of the bag. 'These are probably for you,' he held out the cookie cutters to Farrere, his eyes on me to check if he was wrong.
He wasn't, so I focused on keeping my smile in place.
'Oh,' Farrere said, accepting them. He looked them over, and the confliction in his eyes was surpassed only by how much I wished I'd returned them.
'Thank you,' he said softly, the colour in his cheeks deepening.
'You know how to make gingerbread and shortbread?' Iggy asked stoutly.
'Yes,' Farrere said, a little stung.
'Good,' Iggy sniffed. 'Let's put the tree in the stand.'
Farrere nodded, setting the cookie cutters gently on the coffee table, and turning to the tree. Behind his back, Iggy rolled his eyes before moving to help.
I had no idea what that was supposed to mean, and watching them didn't feel good, so I confirmed with them we would wait for Cam to decorate the tree, and sought the safety of my room, where I could cringe at the heavens in peace.




'It sure looked bigger on the outside, didn't it?' Georges chuckled, and Cam resisted wriggling when his voice sounded every bit as close as he was.
'Yes, I'm regretting the second sweater,' she muttered, tugging at her constricting seatbelt.
The seven seater taxi transporting Cam and her uni friends to the tram stop was at capacity. The film they’d attended had been obscure enough to warrant a showing at an equally obscure cinema on the eastern side of the city. It was a good half hour away from anywhere Cam had ever known, so she was looking forward to being back in sight of recognisable landmarks.
She was also looking forward to finally escaping the eerie phenomenon that was having Ben Jameson seated behind her.
He had been seated behind her in the movie, and now again he was behind her in the taxi. She could feel his eyes on the nape of her neck, like she were some hapless fawn. It wasn’t so much predatory as distracting; he drew her focus like a flame, and he was equally quiet.
She’d sat beside Georges and Ford during the movie, suffering the boyish volume of their laughter with good grace. Ben had stayed silent, even during the scenes that were legitimately funny. Cam had spent the duller parts of the movie wondering if it was paranoid to assume Ben was being quiet to keep her aware of him, because as far as she’d experienced, he was just as likely to laugh at stupid things as Georges and Ford.
By the time the credits rolled she’d needed the bathroom, so she stood, unsurprised but struck regardless to find Ben smiling up at her.
‘What’d you think?’ he asked, quiet electricity in his voice.
Cam had shrugged, making a noncommittal sound. She couldn’t even speak to him.
‘Hey, does anyone have any water?’ his voice drifted across her in the taxi.
Georges voice was warm, but Ben’s was permeating, driving everything else out of her consciousness.
‘I do,’ she answered automatically.
The realisation of her mistake hit her when she turned to look at him, and there he was, still smiling at her like he knew something she didn’t.
‘Cool, can I have some?’ he asked, quite reasonably.
‘I have germs,’ she said, unsure if she was joking or not, but praying he thought she was.
His smile widened. He had nice teeth. Acid eyes, and nice teeth.
‘I don’t mind about Cam germs,’ he said evenly.
What a lame thing to say, she thought, deeply troubled by how his words settled in her head like poetry, heedless of sense.
She pulled her eyes from his, fetching her water bottle from her bag. I won’t be able to drink from it now, she thought glumly. She handed it back to him, intending not to meet his eye again, but the intention didn’t get her far.
He knew she was interested, she could see it. How had he known it before she had? He could see her fretting about it, and he knew she wouldn’t be able to drink from the bottle once he had, that it would render her ten years old because she couldn’t not think of it as almost a kiss.
He knew all this, but, inexplicably, instead of finding it pathetic or immature, he found it–
‘Sexy germs,’ he said softly, smirking.
She turned away.
She had next to no awareness of anything that happened for nearly ten minutes afterward. When Georges asked her if she was coming to dinner with them she had to process his question twice. She told him no, she was tired, unsure if this disappointed him or not. Her eyes lingered on his profile when he turned away. Had he heard what Ben had said? She quickly looked outside when she realised Ben could see her looking at Georges, and he would be reading her eyes.
It didn’t matter. He’d won by default.




For those that practice it, decorating Christmas trees is an interesting event. No matter how much time is spent on it, it does tend to be fun.
At the orphanage, Christmas trees had sported plastic stars and candy, and then, later, candy wrappers. At Benjamin Square, Christmas trees had been tended to like royalty, hung with spun glass baubles and expensive candy canes, of which one or two was eaten.
Presents at the orphanage had been wrapped in butchers paper with the patterns drawn on in coloured marker.
Some years there were presents at Benjamin Square, some years there weren’t.
There is a kindly promise in Christmas trees, that at some point people will gather around them. In the city, the gathering didn’t last long, but it felt weighted just the same.
It confused Farrere, much as everything did these days. He had his spun glass decorations stored away in his apartment, and although he missed them he didn’t mention them. They had been for him and Thierry, whereas Harry’s decorations were needed now. The little baubles seemed equally important in their own way, as did the lights when Iggy discovered pinching their plug made them flicker. Xeeva sat at the table gluing together a paper star for the top of the tree, which she speckled with gold glitter nail polish, and Cam rearranged her pieces of tinsel half a dozen times to make them hang right.
When completed, the crooked tree inspired much bending of the neck in order to get Xeeva’s star properly into perspective.
Farrere tried to convince himself that the tree’s humble appearance was trite and sweet, but that did little to explain why he couldn’t look at it without wanting to cry. It would pass, he knew, it always did.
He watched it touch the others, longing for the way they expressed it.
Xeeva made herself and Cam tinsel crowns; Iggy transported Farrere’s mince tarts and marzipan from the kitchen bench to the table, and Harry wrapped himself in his doona and set up shop on the couch, flicking through TV music channels to find the kitchest carols possible.
Cam mentioned casually that her university friend had hit on her, blushing as brightly as she grinned when the others teased her about it.
It happened slowly, but Iggy caught Xeeva’s gaze and held it, lowering his ears. She stared back, a tired smile working into her cheeks. He returned it, silent, moving away to eat more tarts.
When he could, Farrere watched Harry nibbling the edge of his doona in concentration. He worried about the colour in his cheeks, unsure if it was warmth or fever. He wanted to go sit with him, he didn’t want him to be alone. The moment passed unnoticed by Harry; Cam joined him, giving him her tinsel crown, making him smile.
Farrere tried not think about angels, but he’d made the connection before, so ignoring it was difficult.
I need to get better, he thought tiredly, if only to be able to thank him.
He found himself in the kitchen a little while later, making cookie dough, mixing molasses and sugar for ginger snaps, folding bitter through sweet.
He felt like a ghost.
‘What’re you making?’ Iggy was lifting a glass from the dish rack beside him.
‘Ginger snaps,’ Farrere looked at him.
Unabashed, Iggy searched his face.
‘Was Christmas bad for you, growing up?’ he asked quietly.
‘Sometimes,’ Farrere answered honestly.
Iggy frowned, thinking.
‘Sorry,’ he said eventually.
Farrere smiled, shaking his head.
'Thank you for helping me get the tree,' he said, wanting to ease Iggy away from their awkwardness.
'Any time,' Iggy shrugged. 'Well,' he amended. 'Not any time. It's an annual thing. So... until next Decembre,' he gave Farrere a brief flash of his incisors before moving away to the fridge.
Next Decembre, Farrere thought, astounded. Where will I be? Will I be here?
He stole another glance at the back of Harry’s head, then lowered his eyes, respectful. He continued to fold the dough, careful not to think. One little thought snuck through:
Maybe by next Decembre things would be different.