i will cut the dragon's feet

You never thought much about it, but Laledy’s about Bonnie’s age, isn’t he?

It’s not like he’s got the sort of face that invites that sort of comparision! Bonnie’s all bone and sinew, sure, just like him, but every ounce of her is pure muscle. You’ve seen the sort of damage she can do! She might not be through her adult molt yet. She’s still all adolescent gangle, with the sort of lankiness you can’t figure if it’s youth or real. But no one’s ever going to try to sell her school-feeds.

On the other hand, Laledy’s got the sort of face that makes him look like he still belongs in the caverns.

But that doesn’t mean much! Raphae was still sporting gray eyes until barely a sweep ago, and the last time you saw a picture of him, he’s only just outgrowing them. Highbloods age strange, that’s the problem with them. You’ll be dead before Bonnie starts going gray. Chances are, you’ll be long dead before this sprout stops looking like a pupa.

He isn’t quite her age. But he’s close enough! And Empress only knows she needs more friends.

“Grubadee, have I ever told you about my moirail?” you ask him, and at the other end of the table, he starts like you just hit him.

“Moirail? Wait, uh – you have quadrants?”

Well! That’s not the response you were expecting.

Instead of responding, you take a long sip of your tea. Taking Laledy out for lunch had been a lark. Why not drag the little cullbait out on a proper outing at night, for once, and do your good deed for the sweep? Let him get some proper moonlight on his skin before he burns it all off! He’d been excited when you first mentioned it. Downright pleased, really, and he’d only made two jokes about buying his favour.

(Still two too many! Slap some paint on this boy and you’d think he was a

clown, sometimes, his sense of humor is so awful.)

But he’s been acting strange about it the entire morning twilight, dragging his feet and bouncing in turn. You’d figured it was nerves! Sipara never liked buggies, the first few times she drove in one. But you’ve been at the cafe for nearly two hours now, it’s nearly dawn, and his mood still hasn’t settled any.

Of all the ways it might swing, though, you didn’t figur ehe was going to go off and get all rude on you. But you don’t even have time to tell him he gets to rephrase that before he’s already scrambling. “For reals, tho! Like, not even gonna lie, I totes thought you were, like, doin’ the lone ranger shizz, between like - the whole pancrackin’, and the code-monkeying.”

“It’s, like, thematic,” he hazards, chewing on his lip.

“Calm your spheres, sugargrub. I’m not offended,” you lie, setting down your cup. He visibly relaxes back into his chair. There’s just something so fucking sad about the relief in his grin: he’s Bonnie’s age, sure, but you’re pretty darn certain she’d never scrape for your approval like this.

“So. Uh. You have quadrants.” He says it like it’s some big surprise.

“Did I say quadrants? Shame on you, sprout, don’t put words in my mouth!” You click your tongue at him. “I have a moirail, sugarplum. Don’tcha know, our fine lady Q doesn’t require the rest of ‘em?”

The cafe’s owned by some girl like Taylor, a blueblood with her nose all the way up in places it shouldn’t be. No one even bats an ear the letter, or mention of ladies: half of the folks here look well past Conscription, and you know all of them can’t be imperials. It’s one of the only places you can mention the Queenpin without risking your neck!

Not that it stops Laledy from looking side to side, like drones are about to pop out from under the tableclothes. “LIke, what, no pitch-mate?” he asks, curious, and there’s something strange in his voice. Amusement? If he starts laughing, you might very well just leave him here. You don’t understand pupas. “For

reals? And no flush? Not even ash?”

You blink at him.

“.. no~oo. ‘fraid not!” You slide your empty glass forward, and then wave for a waiter. This is the sort of place that Raphae used to take you to after shows, and the sort of place you’ve missed, since coming back to Alternia. You don’t get to drag Bonnie out here often: she gets a little too restless to sit still this long, for all that it’s nicer than her flavor of ice-cream parlors.

Different tastes, you suppose. No one’s getting shot here, sure, but they took your chip at the door, so all you have to do is leave.

A little less excitement’s worth that sort of luxury!

“Is it that shocking?” You snort. “I’m flattered,” you add, amused, “that you think I’m just such an amazing commodity that my squares are just flying off the shelves, sweetheart. So flattered. Downright touched.”

He doesn’t laugh. But he does smile, a little weakly. “Dunno about flying off,” he snarks. “I mean, shizz, pal, you ain’t even got a sweater on. Thought knitwear was, like, your thing?”

“It is, it is.” The smile, the gab: he’s back into an upswing, thank the Empress. You’ll dump him at Taylor’s before he can drop back down. He’s just not very entertaining like this, when he’s acting like he’s being cowed at every corner. “But alas, my finest cardigans are all with my dear bluebonnet right now. Which ist o say, my dearest, most beloved and bedraggled of moirails. She’s probably ripping holes into them right now,” you say, mournful as you stand up. “Bless her heart. She likes adventure. And she’s your age - have I mentioned that?”

“I was thinking, sweetheart, the two of you ought to meet! You’ve both got such unique senses of humor, bless your little biscuits. Why, you’d get along like a house on fire.”

“.. um. You want me to meet your moirail? Like, won’t that be, hella awks?” A beat. “Or does she, like, not mind -” He’s standing up, but now he pauses. For a second, you think he’s going to gesture at his eyes. “- she work for mizz QP, too?” is what he settles on instead. He’s following your lead, stepping neatly around the table as you slip back on your jacket. The slide of his cane on the carpet is very nearly inaudible. “Or is she, like, the local, law-respectin’ sort?”

“Oh, absolutely,” you drawl, heading towards the door. “Don’t you know, my little sprout, that’s just my type? Law-abiding, proper imperial citizens only! No criminals, no cull-bait, certainly no girls with perfectly illegal transportation —”

Laledy’s been on your heels the entire way out of the cafe, the solid clack of his cane on the concrete behind you a ready reminder to keep your pace slow. But you’re still several steps from your buggy when you realise the sound has disappeared, and he isn’t actually following. You exhale, rolling your eyes up, and then spin to face him. “Laledy!” you say, sharp. “Sugargrub! What in the world is your -”

“So, um, is this, like, a date?” Laledy blurts out.

Well.

“Oh, shit. Uh, not that it’s gotta be - I mean, ‘course it ain’t, what’m I thinking, fancy food ‘n all is just, like - I was just -”

He doesn’t pause when you hold up a hand. He doesn’t stop when you clear your throat. But when you snap: “Laledy!” with just a touch of fang to it, he stops so quickly he nearly bites his tongue.

”Clearly,” you say, once he’s quieted down, “you want it to be! And who am I to crush your dreams?” Something about this seems a bit strange. But he’s very nearly Bonnie’s age, for all that he’s pupa-faced, and his eyes, if they weren’t blind, would be green. So it’s only a little outrageous, you suppose. “So, to answer your little question - before you went entirely off the rails - why not? You can get in the car, by the way!”

”Unless you’re planning on making this lot your new home. I mean, I guess it is nice, but just between the two of us, miss Queene’s couch is just a wee bit nicer.”

You linger by the car door as he clicks his way over, then you pull it open for him, holding out a hand to take his cane. “Here,” you say, and the look he gives you - wide-eyed, alarmed - earns him a laugh. “I’m helping, sugarhorns! Tell you what, I’ll even give it back when you get hive, how’s that?”

This is nicer than you would be in any other circumstances! But if you’re evidently just making his night, then there’s no point in doing it halfway. And the startled doe look is worth it.

”Hey! Uh, ID. Wait.” You’re sliding the cane into the seat behind him, but now you pause. Laledy’s worrying his lip, scratching at the side of his neck like he’s about to say something interesting. Tonight’s been full of surprises: you can’t even imagine what’s going through his pan, and you’re too amused to even want to guess.

.. not that you can help it. Maybe he’s figuring out a way to let you down gently! Break your poor pumpbiscuit over his accusations of a date, let you know he just doesn’t feelthat way, bless your heart. The thought’s endearing. And he certainly looks anxious enough for it.

You’re already thinking of a witty rejoinder when he blurts out: “– can I kiss you?”

Well. Isn’t that just precious?

”No,” you tell him, amused.

You don’t even finish the word before he’s deflating. His cheeks flood green, then his face. His ears pull back and down. “I’m sorry,” is the first thing he says, but not the last: the rest of his words are practically a slurry, they’re so mixed up, falling on top of each other like he can’t even be bothered to keep them straight. “I’m a dumbass! Soz, soz,sorry -”

“- you didn’t let me finish, you little cactus.” The first laugh had him quieting. The second one got you a frown, and now he’s looking – confused, still, but belligerent! Serves him right. Laledy’s mystifying, but he’s amusing, too, even when his mood keeps spinning every time you blink. “Stop writhing,” you order. “You can’t kiss me, but I’ll tell you what, dearheart -”

When you grab his chin, it fits neatly between your thumb and your forefinger. And when you lift his face up, he doesn’t object, just makes some queer sound at the back of his throat. “- I will kiss you. How’s that?”

”Yeah,” he breathes, shaky. “Okay.”