Evertrying.

New here. I like g/t and its societal implications of overcoming... like David and Goliath :O

[theo-n-dulgess]

Happy 30th

First ever g/t story I've ever written and ever posting! Please enjoy this little David figuring out how to face (and perhaps fall in love with) a Goliath. :D

If anybody asks, please tell them it was the biggest blunder of his life, that he’ll still be embarrassed if you bring it up, and it was all his brother's fault.

Seriously.

Tell them it was the worst birthday of their lives up to this point. Even worse than their 28th. I mean, this time, security got involved. And that was the year David got shrunk, so that's saying something. 

And yet, at least a story could be made of it.

______________________________________________________________

“You’re coming!” 

Danny Chu pouted, the bathroom door to their studio apartment in New York City swinging back and forth, as he, the younger twin, a teeteringly-29 year old who acted like 12, swung the door open and shut with his weight. His hoodie sleeves were sliding down, and messy electric blue hair was fading a bit, black at the roots ,and it contrasted heavily with that smile that never did.

He looked at his older twin brother, who didn’t look back at him. He knew that this conversation would end the way they usually did, which was nowhere. And there wasn’t a place he really needed to be. David matched the dark setting his place on the shelf gave him. There he was, disheveled. Watching some doctor drama on his relatively TV-sized phone.

“No.” David Chu kept his eyes on the oversized phone screen. “Whatever it is, no.”

“You know that it’s been 2 years since we did something for our birthday?”

“Yes. And clearly-”

“No.” Daniel shut him down. “You may be tiny.”

“Exactl-”

“Absolutely puny.”

“Danny.”

“Mi-ni-fric-ken-scule.” Danny drew out, pouting his lip. David cocked his head to the side, glaring, finally at his brother.

“But,” Danny poked him on the chest playfully, always slightly feeling surreal at how easy it was to push him off balance a little, a Goliath comparably, robbing the five-inch-tall David of every ounce of seriousness. “You’re not devoid of fun.”

______________________________________________________________

 It seemed as comical and unbelievable as it did in the present day. Ten years ago, a sort of shrinking virus broke out. It's only effect was shrinking normal people down to a diabolical 4-6 inches tall.

 Some theorized it was some form of extreme and early osteosarcopenia, though that was a very loose and inaccurate definition. It was more of an atomic reaction: a mutated sort of reduction based on… well, David could explain it best, as he was (had been) a medical student in his final year of residency, a licensed physician in training, and now… he rarely wanted to talk about it. After falling from the cusp of becoming everything he (and his parents) dreamed of. 

He’d always known it was a possibility. Blood tests indicated his family was predisposed, if ever so slightly. His family was more likely than the average person to come down with it, but it was so rare, David remembered Danny would joke about it. The chances of winning the lottery jackpot were higher. So was a plane crashing, or lightning to strike someone once, twice, and thrice. 

David tested positive when he was 27. He didn’t remember much between finding out he had the virus (through the worst phone call of his life), and finding himself sitting in a hospital bed in a bed colossally too large, after relatively safely undergoing the shrinking process. He, at the very least, preferred not to sleep in the “apartments” which were repurposed terrariums the hospital put aside for the “shrunken” patients. It would have been a normal sized bed there, relatively. And he should have stayed there, because he was shrunken. David still felt the limina of a flinch when he heard the word. Shrunken. It sounded unreal. It still felt unreal.

The loneliness David felt was due in part to how only a small number of people were affected each year. The shrinking rate was comically small, and nobody remembered it existed. The disease would pop up every now and then as the odd fun-fact, an episode in a documentary, an anomaly. David himself, basically a doctor, hadn’t really studied up on it. He had no idea it would be like this. Had he been able to go back in time, he’d advocate for more accommodations in place for those like him. But he couldn’t think of that now. He found his head blank most of the time, full of tin foil and static stuffing his head. It didn’t feel good, and he didn’t know how to stop it. To make it worse, their 28th birthday was shortly after that too. David had hoped to be a doctor by then. On that day, the twins stayed up late on the roof, lying down, looking at the stars. David got cold, so Danny asked if he wanted to stay in his pocket. David nodded. He refused to drink, or talk really, just like most of the other days. He was 28 now: living in his parents’ bookshelf in New Jersey with a medical education useless to him and of course – no license. He was also shivering in a jean jacket pocket. Danny felt even more empty when he felt his brother shaking. Danny cupped a warm hand over him.

The only time he did utter a word that night was when he agreed to move with Danny to New York City. David simply said, “okay.” 

Then, Danny got drunk and rambled about how his music career was taking off in New York, making sure David was warm under his hand, as he stayed next to his twin all night, compromising that way. But really, how could you drink to that?

______________________________________________________________

There must have been something in the air that day. That must be it. Or something in the water. A chemical in the apartment wall paint that emerged on January 31st, that made David agree to do something for their shared birthday. And this something, he should have guessed – as his brother was a DJ – was clubbing.

“And where exactly would I go?” David questioned, somewhat playing around with the idea.

“A pocket or something.”

“How dignified.”

“And a bookshelf is more so.” Gesturing at the shelf where David ate, slept, and worked in. David had long grown shameless of that fact. “But seriously, you can stand by the DJ table. Maybe you can help me scratch the discs!”

“Let’s start small.” David offered. “A movie. A nice theater. Or a nice dinner at a nice restaurant. Isn’t there that-”

“Come on now.” Danny knew he got him: David was beginning to compromise, and slowly Danny would get his way by pushing. That’s why he was smiling. David kind of hated how Danny smiled when he knew David would fold. David also hated how his brother interrupted him. It didn’t happen often, only when Danny got excited about something. “I got booked for today. Incredibly nice club. Nice crowd.”

“Who’s going to be there?”

“My friends! Well, acquaintances too. A few stretches. Strangers mostly. It’ll be small, I promise.”

“None of my friends, huh?”

“Unless you reached out to one of them in the past couple years.” Danny said pointedly.

______________________________________________________________

“I don’t want to talk to anyone.” David softly said. There he was, only 3 weeks shrunk, sitting on the edge of his desk. The sunlight was pouring in, they were still in Boston, Massachusetts where Danny was helping David pack the rest of things. He was no longer a physician-in-training. He no longer owned this tiny apartment that he never really hung out in, always out working, studying, living. David had just come away from weeks of explaining this predicament to his landlord, his hospital, and his associates… but no one close to him. He wasn’t ready for that. And he was tired of all of it already.

His feet swung back and forth over the edge, a more than 50-story-drop relatively, and David realized that he was no longer afraid of heights. This was not out of bravery, but apathy. 

“You should tell Aaliya and Evan–”

“I don’t want to become their burden. They have so much on their plate. Residency. Newlyweds. They don’t need all of this too.”

“You need to at least tell Avi.”

David sucked in a breath. He found that he held all of that fear he still had, and let it release over the cliff until he felt nothing.

“I’ll tell Avi.” He breathed out. I’ll tell him I need to go. I’ll tell him I want to end it. I’ll break up. I’ll disappear. But I don’t need to tell Avi why.”

“You’re going to break his heart.” Daniel warned. “He’d understand. He’d understand all of this.”

“I know.” David let the tears flow, or really, hang. He wasn’t used to how they still hung in his eye sockets, something about how the water he produced was too little to let gravity make it fall down his face, God, he couldn’t even cry correctly. He couldn’t even do that anymore. That contributed to his apathy.

“He’d understand and throw away his life trying to take care of… whatever this is.” David held his face in his hands, as he still didn’t like staring down. He lied. He was still afraid. 

“Why not let him love you then?”

“Because I love him. That’s why.”

______________________________________________________________

They arrived on time, some of Danny’s buddies handling setup, getting crowds warm, all that jazz. Danny was technically on the clock, but the club owner knew it was his birthday, so, aptly, on principle, he was supposed to be lax.

While making their way there, Danny whispered to his pocket, “This is going to be great.”

This was the first time David left the apartment in two years for something fun. Anything that wasn’t grocery shopping (he liked picking out the good produce from the secrecy of Danny’s pocket sometimes), doctor’s appointments, and trips home to Jersey. Those, in itself, were few and far between too. So, as David sat in the pocket of Danny’s mustardy, burnt orange corduroy jacket, he couldn’t help but shiver out of nervousness and the surrounding snow. And when they got there, at least it was warm. What he should have expected was that it would be loud too. The party was already going. And then David realized how this, very much, wasn’t his scene. It never had been, even in college. Even as a fully grown adult. But Daniel was excited, and for his sake, David steeled himself.

______________________________________________________________

Danny had been, before David came down with this insane virus, the black sheep of the family. The black sheep with bright blue hair. The blue sheep who loved EDM, R&B, and all sounds scratched and mixed by a computer. 

He was a musician, and very much not exactly what his parents wanted. This was apparent as the pair grew up, as the two tacitly decided that David would be the golden child, and Danny could do whatever he wanted. The two bristled at the tradeoff all their lives, and never were really that close after middle school. They simply existed next to each other without a thing in common, the way the sky and the ground see each other every day, but never touch. Sometimes Danny grew jealous of David’s praise from their parents, sometimes David was angry at how easy Danny had it, but the system worked. They grew close only after this dynamic fell apart.

When this happened to David, their parents did not exactly… take it well. They could barely even look at David for the first month, much less speak to him. Danny was his awkward caretaker. Every now and then, Danny picked a conversation. David thoughtlessly responded.

At some point, it fell to silence. Danny couldn’t stand that. So one day, after pondering their entire lives up to that point, feeling pity of course, but also wanting something to change, he said this.

“Don’t worry, by mass, I’m still a bigger disappointment.” And in one sentence on one day, everything broke. Both boys broke into peels of laughter. David even cried.

“Are you sure about that?” David asked, wiping away tears.

“Sure of it.” 

And in those following months, both boys finally caught up with one another. Secrets and resentments were dispensed. And eventually, David grew so comfortable with his brother that they decided to move to New York City together for Danny’s career, if only to get away from how his parents acted around him. Things weren’t perfect. David got a remote job at a call center to help pay rent, as the next two years were full of small successes on Danny’s end, while David stuck to his routine. It wasn’t a bad life. But it wasn’t quite living.

______________________________________________________________

It was becoming kind of a disaster. Daniel was stuck manning the turntable ALL night at the club. Danny had been right about one thing at least: the place was nice. Packed to the brim, people got down on the swirling dance floor, enhanced by gorgeous lights and loud clothes. The headliner had not shown up, and there was no room for a break. The club owner was pissed about that, so he stayed pissed at everything else, which ruffled Danny even more. Out of anger and frustration, Daniel continuously apologized and joked frantically with the tiny man in his pocket, who didn’t want to leave the slight security he had from there. This was becoming the worst of both of them. Danny was straining under the restriction, angry and axious about spoiling his twin's first night out. Therefore, Danny also downed many drinks. This made David incredibly concerned, as Danny’s movements became wilder, as Danny slowly forgot how to be careful.

"Danny, please be-"

"THIS is stupid!" Danny said, throwing his hands up, doing the job of course, but doing it upset. "I was told this was only going to last an hour or two..."

"It's fine, I can just stay here, and-"

"I'm getting another drink." Danny said, tired. "This is a bust. So, I'mmm... just going to leave this running."

With that, he just left the track running as he forced his way through the dance floor, jostling his way through the people. David ducked into the pocket, feeling horrible, especially because he felt afraid. Normal people scared him, if only because of danger and carelessness. He didn't like the feeling.

"You need to-" David started, as Danny finally broke through the crowd.

At this point, Danny wasn't listening. He was just feeling lousy about himself. For showing Davy a bad time, for still taking sucky jobs. And that's why he ordered another one.

"At least they're free! Want one?" Danny laughed. "Ha, it's fine, I know you don't."

And just like that, Danny cut his way through the sea, but this time, the music was louder, more popular, more known. Everyone knew this song. Suddenly, the crowd began to jump and scream to the beat of the music. If they were wild before, they were feral now. In congruence, Danny had to sort of jump with them. The lights bleared green and red and blue, and it was nauseating. David saw it, he couldn't just duck in the pocket, he panicked as he was jostled up and down, crying for Danny. But it got worse. The beat steadied, and David's heart fell: the music was heading toward a beat drop. Everyone who wasn't dancing before rushed to the middle of dance floor. They begun crowding, and now, Danny seriously couldn't make his way out. The music slowly built, and Danny was dancing with it. He was following. He forgot.

"Stop, stop jumping!" The beat sped up, the pitch raising deafeningly.

"Please stop!" David begged. Silence in the club, save for the tiny.

The beat dropped. Hyped, Danny jumped up and down as hard as he could.

"DANNY!"

David tumbled to the floor, unable to hold on any longer, and that seemed like the end. He burnt with helplessness when he hit the floor, luckily, he didn't seem to have broken anything (the shrunken were supposedly more durable), but his back, it hurt bad, it seemed thrown out of alignment. The world was ablaze in steps and skyscrapers of legs, and David couldn’t get away from motion, the floor itself was constantly shifting hues. He couldn't distinguish Danny from the crowd. His heart quickened. He cried for Danny. He screamed for help. Was this how it was going to end? At the very least, he felt something again, gone was the emptiness, as he found that he passionately wanted to get out of this alive. He leaped out of the way of a Chelsea boot, feeling the dread slosh within him, as he felt himself trip when he landed. David's adrenaline was too quick, his mind not matching with his movements, as he struggled to right himself back up. In the most honest part of his heart, he knew it was futile. He just hoped it wouldn’t be a high heel that did him in, unless, well, maybe that would hurt less. He felt like giving up. Happy 30th.

But no. In a second, a rough hand scooped him off the floor, and in the blearing lights of the evening and the sting of his own embarrassment, David couldn’t make out who it was.

This normal-sized man with really dry hands shuffled to the outside deck. It was gorgeous outside. It was actually quiet, the muffling of the crowd unnoticeable. Gargantuan buildings reduced to their tiny windows of light as their highlighting feature. David felt his eyes try to avert themselves there, pinpoint two to stare at, as opposed to looking at the gargantuan figure that held him.

“Thank you.” He eked out.

“Sorry about that.” This man said at the same time.

David, despite how absolutely pathetic he felt, couldn’t help but laugh. 

“Why are you saying sorry? You, you probably saved my life.”

“Yes, but, I could have done it gently. Rate your rescue.”

“Huh?”

“Scale from 1-10.”

David took a pause. This man was smiling, looking down at his tiny figure, and not out of amusement. Huh.

“6.”

“Elaborate.”

“I’d rather not be in that situation ever again. I will avoid it as much as I can– but if it came down to it… I’d say your hands are pretty rough.”

“Lotion, got it.”

“Gloves too perhaps. Sanitation."

“Ah,” He snapped his fingers crisply. “Didn’t think of that.”

“Next time you better bring a silk pillow.”

“Noted!”

David couldn’t help but talk, even as he didn’t know what he was saying, bantering involuntarily, but apparently it was funny because the tall man laughed some more. He stared up at the guy. Tall, obviously. Dark, curly hair, dark eyes with the light spark Daniel’s eyes have, but warmer than his. He wore a green shirt with the tri-force on it, with jeans and a fleece lined jacket, and a pair of glasses balanced on his nose with a high nose bridge. Stubble too. Handsome too.

Without another word, and with a surprising amount of care, he went over and placed David on one of the high cocktail tables.

“I’m going to go get us something to drink.” He pointed his thumb back to the bar. “What would you like?”

“Old Fashioned.” David spoke continuously absentmindedly. He realized this was the first person he’s talked to in two years in-person. One that wasn’t a doctor, or family.

“Alright, one second.”

Just like that, he went away and came right back again with two drinks, and David didn’t move an inch. When Jack came back, he only smiled, and placed down a relatively huge Old Fashioned, and a huge piña colada with two colorful swords sticking in bits of pineapple.

"Look at that, I got three pineapples!" He exclaimed childishly. David stayed quiet.

“Watch this.”

Danny picked his keys out of his pocket and saw there was a little Lego figure keychain on one of them, a funny little trinket. It was a mini replica of the tall man himself with a Lego coffee cup in its hand. David gaped at how Jack plucked it from the Lego’s cupped hand and gingerly placed it on the table next to the oversized drink. For once, there was a dish that was slightly too small for David. David didn’t say anything, just quietly picking up the cup in his hands. Relatively, it was still slightly awkwardly sized, between the size of a shot glass and a full mug, but it was deeply felt. The tall man proceeded to get a corner of a sanitizing wipe from his bag and ripped off an edge for him. 

“Here, you can wipe it.” The man grinned. Again, David accepted it without comment, rubbing the inside of the “glass” with the tiny wipe. He then dried it, lifting the cup into the pool of Old Fashioned like he was cupping it from a well. He took a small sip. This was the first time he drank since he shrunk.

The tall man said nothing more, maybe slightly awkwardly staring and looking away when he stared too long. Jack took a long sip of his piña colada. David suddenly spoke.

“I’m not a fairy. Or a hallucination, or a-”

“E-excuse me?” 

“I know this must be surreal to you, and I appreciate all of this, but, I know, it’s weird.” 

“Oh, God, I’m sorry I’m if making you uncomfortable.” Jack scratched the back of his head, looking guilty.

“You’re fine. You’re actually–” David knew what he wanted to say. “Why are you acting so normal?” David let out. “Do you know why I am even like this?”

“You were shrunken.” The man said plainly. “A person who underwent a reduction caused by rare atomic reactions, with a scientific name I cannot remember at the moment. No need to explain." Jack ate a piece of pineapple, pointing the tiny sword at David. "Unless you are lying, and are an undercover fairy. Then I would love an explanation."

After a slight pause, where David simply looked impressed, the man gently extended a pinky. “I’m Jack.”

“David.” He awkwardly shook the extended finger. “How do you know about all this?”

“I had a friend who got shrunk years ago. Best friend actually, back in Texas.”

David sighed a little bit, slightly glad that he didn’t have to fully explain his existence. 

“What are they like?” David immediately regretted asking the question. People like him, they were usually sob stories. Just check his own.

“Lively, in a word.” Jack laughed, catching David off-guard.

“She’s a skater, and I remember I got her one of those fingerboards you use when you get bored in class. She–” Jack laughed, “She really liked it. She upgraded it, got new boards. It’s funny, she still goes to the park with our old friends, and uses the quarter ramp like she’s riding a vert tsunami. I think she even has a Youtube channel.”

Just like that, he broke a little. He felt it inside of him, a truth he knew but didn’t let himself believe. The fact he hasn’t overcome this yet. But, there was hope.

“Wow. That's incredible." David said, sipping. He felt the drink loosen him up. He didn't even know that was possible.

I’m still adjusting.” He took a slow sip, and slowly continued. “And it sucks even more, because it’s been 3 years now. And I don’t know what I’ve been doing.” Then, he remembered himself.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t be telling all this to a stranger.”

“Isn’t that what bars are for?” Jack raised his glass. “Social lubricant and all.”

David supposed.

“Did you come here with anybody?” He asked.

Jack shook his head.  “I’m assuming you did?” 

“Yeah. My brother. Wanted me to leave my safe zone. Fair enough, but I didn’t think I was bold enough to hit the metaphorical and literal dance floor.”

“You’re funny.”

“If I was really funny, you’d laugh and not simply tell me I was.” David pointed out.

“Mm. This isn’t really my scene either. But, a friend of mine told me to go, for, you know, meeting new people.” Jack picked up the little sword in his drink and held it up against David. “Honestly, my only off-night in ages. Usually, I’m up doing photography. Now! En garde, new person.”

“You’re playful.”

“I’m not playing with you. This is for my honor, man.”

And just like that, an absurd sight sprouted at the corner table. A true David and Goliath. Maybe it was the warmth of whiskey, or how this was the first non-family person he's had a good conversation with in ages, but David played along. He played along well too: I mean, David was a Junior Olympics fencer in high school. Heck, David felt his old competitiveness kick in. He went for it. This talent surprised Jack, who was obviously going a bit easy on the five-inch-guy, as he also began getting competitive, even abusing his inherent advantage of strength. At some point, they were evenly matched in this bizarre, houseruled fencing match. Jack jabbed the sword under David’s armpit, and David, as un-David as it was, acted out a fiercely dramatic death scene. Even waxed a little bit of Shakespeare.

“A plague o’ both your houses! They have made worms’ meat of me!” David cried.

“Mercutio doesn’t really fit in this context.” Jack dryly remarked.

“Et tu, Brute?”

I stabbed you in the front, Caesar. Not much of a betrayal. Try again.”

"O, I am slain!" 

“No! I thought you were Claudius!” Jack clutched his heart, catching the Hamlet reference. “Crap, guess I’m about to be banished from England, and my love will be driven to madness. Woe is me.” David couldn’t help but be deeply impressed. 

“So, you’re a theater nerd along with being a regular nerd.” David said pointedly at the Zelda shirt.

“I’ve got refined tastes. And apparently so do you.” Jack raised his glass, adjusting his glasses. “Even still, I still won this duel.”

“Well,” David commented on it, saying, “I could have absolutely destroyed you if I had a slingshot.”

“I’m Goliath then?”

“Of course, a lumbering oversized giant like you fits the bill perfectly. How tall are you even?”

“Six-two.” He said proudly.

“Wow.”

“How tall were you?”

…Six-four.” David lied, streaking a finger on the outside of the glass.

“Uh-huh. Right.” Jack leaned in. They laughed together.

“You know, David actually always had the advantage.” Jack said with a smile. David perked his head up.

“And how’s that?”

“Mind if I nerd out?”

“Nerd away.” David grinned. 

“Theoretically based, Goliath was not well matched for David. Theoretically, Goliath had acromegaly, a tumor on the pituitary gland that had caused his gigantic growth, but it left him practically blind and immobile. Then, his bosses loaded him up with this heavy armor, which left him even more immobile.”

“A sitting target.”

“Exactly. And David’s sling was, first of all, long-range, so Goliath couldn’t reach him, but it also packed a hell of a punch. Goliath was basically sitting there and David had like an 11th century BCE handgun.” 

“So, you’re saying…” David realized that Jack had this uncanny ability to never talk over someone else. David closed his mouth.

“What I’m saying is that the odds against you may not be as stacked as you think.”

“I don’t know,” David clicked his tongue, craning his neck to look up at the curly haired man, discarding his plastic sword into the glass. “They are stacked pretty high.”

“Who knows, someone might offer you a boost.” 

David really tried to stay composed. This was hard when the handsome man smiled that way.

“Cheers?” David asked.

"To new people?"

“No…” David smiled at the corners. "Well, yes, but no."

“To what?”

“Happy 3oth.” David breathed out.

“It’s your birthday?” Jack mused. “And you almost got stepped on?” How blunt.

“You know, it would have been kind of poetic to die on the same day as my birthday.” David remarked.

“Shakespearean even.” Jack added. They both cheered, and sat drinking together for a quiet moment.

“Would you like a birthday present?”

“Is it another duel?”

“No, but, I need a pen…”

Jack pulled out a pen and started writing numbers on a napkin. David was dumbfounded when he realized what he was doing. David couldn’t rightly surmise that the numbers he was writing was for a phone number. But there they were, and using his deductive brain, he, at the very least, correctly analyzed that there were 10 random numbers shakily scribbled onto a huge napkin.

Jack looked expectantly at him, and David was so in shock he didn’t register any of it. Things suddenly seemed lighter, the world of dance inside was loud, and the lights reached his eyes. David felt something. He felt excited. He felt noticed. He felt… liked?

But the music suddenly cut, and loud mic feedback made its way to the balcony, as the doors were opened, and the DJ was looking absolutely panicked. Oh God. Oh no. He realized.

“DAY-VVEEE!!!” Danny slurred. “I’M SORRY! I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, and now you might be under someone’s shoe or something, but like, I don’t know, please don’t be, I really wanted us to have–” He started hiccuping in between words,” hic– a good 30. A really good –hic– 3oth. Like that’s one of the big birthdays –hic– you know?”

“Oh no.” David said under his breath.

“And now!!! I don’t know where you are. –Hic– And that’s my fault. I should have not gotten this drunk, I should have not played tonight, and I shouldn’t have made you come in the first place…”

Jack was staring and David covered his face.

“Where are you, man. I need you. Wait, wait, wait, PARTY PEOPLE! Can you all help me find him???” The mic feedback whined again, making the partygoers both confused and upset. The lights were still going, they couldn’t tell if this was a real emergency, a joke, or a drunken rambling. Maybe all of them? Still, the club owner standing (formerly dancing) with a bunch of women was looking pissed, holding his Blue Lagoon with a tense hand.

“We have the same face, different hair.” Danny went on. “His hair is natural and boring and overgrown. He needs a haircut. Please don’t tell him that today though, it’s his birthday. Be nice to him.”

Jack glanced from the DJ’s face to David’s, and a smile bloomed on his lips, which he stifled immediately.

“He’s like yay-high. Wait, gimme that.” He seized a pencil from the turntable corner, happy to find a reference. He’s like a pencil.” Daniel demonstrated with his hand, but realized, with great discernment, it was too big. “Okay, maybe less tall than a new pencil. One of those used pencils then. But! Definitely taller than half a pencil.”

By now, the crowd was deeply confused, Jack was dumbfounded, and David wanted to perish on the spot. 

Danny glanced around for a second, “No? Nobody? Nobody saw this amazing guy? Right, he has a name. DAY-VVVY. Call for DAVY. Seriously, I need to find him. He always feels bad because he thinks I take care of him, but he does so much. I need him for my taxes. I need him to help pay half, okay, most of the rent. I need him because I make him laugh. I need him so I can apologize, and let him say, ‘I told you so’ to my face. I need him because I can tell him anything. I need him because we just reconnected two years ago and he’s the best friend and twin I could ever ask for. So please, help me find him.”

By now, Danny was beyond desperate. “I’m just really sorry.” Danny was close to tears at this point. “I just want him to be happy.” That last statement hung in the air for a second, as David and the crowd took it in. David, through the embarrassment, couldn’t help but smile ever so slightly. Then, the club owner finally forced his way to the stage and seized the mic back.

“Alrighty, let’s get this party rolling again–” The club owner, in his white blazer, charmingly tried to say. But, Danny grabbed the microphone back: a man on a mission.

“We’re not playing any music until I find him.” Danny paused, and added, “Remember, yay-high, check the ground!” Some of the clubbers actually complied, getting low on the ground, looking for this strange, tiny man, screaming “DAVY!” Some were actually concerned, and some were too plastered to reason the command.

“Danny, how much did you drink tonight?” The white blazered man tried to play off jokingly, fighting off his veiled rage.

“Too much but that’s not important. Come on, search, people!!!!” Danny urged. 

At that point, the club owner was really fighting to get the party back on the road by jerking the microphone back to him and signaling security, but Danny was not having it. Both Jack and David, in their heads, knew they could solve this problem, but they kind of couldn’t take their eyes away from this disaster.

Danny and the club owner were tied in this drunken kind of duel. But eventually, security did come along, and successfully got Danny away from the mic, and the the stage. Not before, in the midst of their fight, the club owner’s Blue Lagoon got in the way, splashing all over the club owner’s blazer, prompting the laughter of the entire venue, and the club owner’s face to go from pissed to genuinely livid.

Jack finally broke from his staring, and finally spoke.

“I’m assuming–”

“Mm-hm.” David said quickly. “Can you get me to him?” David kind of stung at how helpless he was in this situation, relying on this stranger, or maybe friend, to get him around. Now, David felt, this all together, got too weird for this new guy. He felt his heart lurch.

Without a word, adjusting his glasses fast, Jack gently offered his rough hand, and David stepped onto it. David couldn't tell how Jack felt.

“I can take it from there.” David he made sure to say. “You don’t need to help us get home. Sorry about tonight.” David felt even more self-conscious than he thought he could ever feel.

“Of course.” Jack quickly made his way over and into the elevator, following where security had been. The elevator doors closed behind them, and Jack's mask of seriousness finally chuckled. Slowly, both boys began to laugh, slowly at first, but as the floors descended, they laughed even harder.

“I’m sorry.” David burned red, but he was laughing.

“What for?” Jack stifled another laugh, trying to act kind and polite, adjusting his glasses. David found that he loved the way this man adjusted them, he always did it when he was being playful.

“Come on, you can’t play the straight man this part of tonight too.”

“What are you talking about? This happens every time I go clubbing.” He said stoically. “And for the record, he seems really great. Your brother, I mean.”

The elevator music played, and David suddenly appreciated it a lot. His brother, of course, and how comfortable this stranger, no, surely, a friend, made him feel.

“Yeah, he is.” David smiled.

The elevator opened, to a funny sight. 

There was Danny, frantically asking for the security team to search for Davy.

“Yay-high!” Danny desperately slurred, as security looked baffled too, trying to both reassure him and get him away from the building.

Danny continued rambling about his search for a 5-inch-tall man, until Jack cut through the crowd with David in his hand, and the entire team went from perplexed to astonished.

“Oh God, Davy, is that you? Is this a ghost? Is this a guilt hallucination?” Danny struggled out.

“No, no, Dan–” David began, but without a word, Danny plucked his twin off of Jack’s palm and placed him in his pocket.

“Let’s go home… I know you don’t want to be here. I really shouldn’t have–” Danny took a single look back at Jack. “Thanks, man.”

“No problem at all.” Jack said gently. “My pleasure.”

“Danny, this is J-” David tried to say, until the club owner descended to the bottom floor. The club owner, his red face completely contrasting his now blue stained blazer, began running over to where they were, and David ducked his head into the pocket.

“And that’s my cue!” Danny exclaimed, even in his panic, he knew that if there was anything he should do, that was get away. And so, with all the grace of a cartoon character, Daniel fled the scene.

It wasn't until they were blocks away that David realized he left the phone number on the table.

______________________________________________________________

Danny was tired. Ashamed too. They walked back to the apartment in silence. The snow was cold outside, both boys were too full of adrenaline to shiver. Today's trouble and consequences were for another day, getting into their apartment building was a relief.

"Davy, I am so-"

"Shhh." David said. "Wait until we get back."

Danny walked up the stairs to their shared apartment, readying his apology, when he saw a huge package leaning on their door.

"David, sorry cannot-" And that's when Danny, for once, was without words.

It was a XDJ-AZ All-in-One DJ System, a top of the line DJ setup, David had done his research. He didn't know an ounce about electronic music, but he did really care. He had it planned for months.

“I got it ordered.” David smiled. “I’m sorry I couldn’t get it wrapped because, well you know.”

For once, Daniel was speechless.

“Thank you, thank you, God, I could kiss you right now.”

"Pull it inside first!" David laughed. "It's on you to carry it in here."

Danny got everything inside, sobering up quite a bit in the slow process, and by then, the trouble of today was forgotten. It was their birthday, and now it was for each other.

"But seriously, David, I'm sorry. I could have got you killed." Danny said quietly. "

"I wasn't though!" David smiled. "And, I had fun. I'll tell you later. I'm assuming you got cake?"

“Why, of course, mon frère!” He pulled from the fridge this normal sized, red velvet cake that David could have used as a bean bag. He placed a nice candle on it. They sang for each other, each laughing when they said each other's name in the middle of the song.

"Because I messed up, you can take the wish." Daniel pushed the cake toward him.

“I don’t think I can blow it out.”

“We can blow it out together. But you make the wish."

"I'll wish that you don't get fired from that club."

"Shut up."

David thought about it. Whenever he got overwhelmed, whenever he had a decision to make, he always thought of all of the loves in his life. He thought about his parents, distant as they were, they did love them in their own secure way. Danny, of course, his oppositical twin flame. His friends he wished he could have been greeted by. Avi, and all of the regret and loss he felt there, if only for the sake of love. And of course… lovely new beginnings. The only wish that came to mind was to see Jack again. Somehow. He kind of blew it with the number, but, there was always by chance.

“Happy 30th!” They cheered. And the candle was blown out, and the twins smiled at each other, and the lights of New York bounced off each other, and that wish was sent to be granted.

[fireflywritesgt]

Artist Unknown

Part 52 of my story! Read the index and content warnings here! Yes! YES! The tiger is out!

London, Ontario. Crossroads of the world. Harry stood on the corner of the intersection that made up the entirety of the city’s downtown core and searched for the storefront that supposedly held the entrance to the Wilkins gallery, though it was not easy. A layer of fog had draped itself over the city, thick as the mists on the Atlantic, leaving only the windows visible from a distance. They flickered like jack-o-lanterns as shadows passed over them, and the further he moved blindly through this city that was not his, the more foolish he began to feel. It had been four months of fruitless searching, four months of empty barn houses, tiny fights, and failed police calls. Now he had dragged himself and his bike – quite literally – to a backwater repository of Toronto’s finest rejects, and for what? A newspaper advertisement and a hunch. If it was a testament to anything, it was a testament to how desperate he was, and as he prowled the corner in search of the gallery building something animal inside of him shifted and clawed as if trying to find its way out. It was this raw instinct that carried him forward, past any true logic and reason, twisting him moreso into a thing with a purpose than a person with a goal.

Harry Avery had never known love, yet he could not turn back, for he did not have the choice to any more than love itself was a choice.

The bike had been stashed in the horse paddock at the Brunswick Hotel several blocks away for a handsome fee, and now he was in search of a jeweler’s, seasick with unease. The storefront he was looking for was supposedly near a bank and a department store, both of which Harry had already found. Keeping an eye out for streetcars, he crossed the gravel road with hands in his pockets, and reached a corner where a newsie was shouting something about a doctor murdered by some Montreal mafia. Before Harry could stop and ask him for directions he was nearly knocked off his feet by a figure racing zig-zag through the fog.

It appeared to be a youth in a suit and hat, though Harry couldn’t quite make out his features, for he didn’t stop and turn to look at Harry until he was several yards ahead. When he did, he seemed to pause and lock on to Harry for a moment – only to teeter and collapse, much to Harry’s shock and dismay. That was when a stout police officer pushed Harry out of the way and dove towards the unconscious youth.

Harry slowed his pace as he walked by the unbecoming scene, and sensing his presence, the officer stooped over the boy said,

“Nothing to see here. Just another degenerate for the wagon.”

As the officer turned towards the curb with the limp youth in tow, his flashlight revealed that there were indeed a number of degenerates in the wagon, and Harry could tell from the whooping and hollering nearby that there were still more wandering about on the streets. He kept moving, and it wasn’t long before one accosted him.

“Got any pennies?” Asked a voice that reeked of gin.

A grubby hand reached out to Harry before he could even see the toothless face attached to it.

“No, sir, I don’t have any.” Harry was speaking as quickly as he was race-walking away from the man.

He had barely finished the sentence when another man approached him with his hat out. He slouched over his pockets protectively and ducked into the nearest shop front. When he saw where he was, he was met with a pleasant surprise.

The smell of old wood filled his nose as the building’s floorboards creaked below him, and as he turned around he was greeted with an elegant display of small, red, rectangular boxes, each of which held gold rings set with sparkling diamonds. There was a wreath in the window above them, a Christmas display no doubt, and a long line of people snaked past it, packed like sardines into the tiny storefront in fear of coming rain. Harry could tell by their dress alone that they were high society, and they weren’t so much shopping as they were waiting for something to happen.

This was the jewelry store he had been looking for, and above it, so far as Harry could tell, was the Wilkins gallery space. As he followed the line of people to a staircase at the far side of the room, it became clear that these were not shoppers in the traditional sense – they were patrons of the arts, who were being detoured through the jewelry store as part of what could only be some clandestine business arrangement between mister Wilkins and the store’s owner. It was certainly making for good marketing on the jeweler’s behalf, for the women in their fine fur coats tittered and gossiped over the jewels as their bored chaperones stood their place in line. Harry could only wonder how long they had all been standing there, for the line was barely moving. He headed towards the back of the queue while his skin itched to get inside.

The sound of a man clearing his throat from behind the counter snapped him back to reality.

“Excuse me! You there.” Said the tinny voice of the bespectacled man at the counter. “Can I help you, sir?”

Harry lumbered over to the warm glow of the oil lamp by the counter, and at the sight of the polished jeweler he suddenly felt foolish for even being there. There was no way he would fit in among these people, not with his scarred face or his ragged getup.

“I’m here for the exhibition.” Harry explained, growing ever sheepish as the jeweler’s hawkish eyes looked him up and down.

Weakly he pulled out the newspaper clipping from his pocket, only for the man to wave it away.

“Labourers enter through the other door.” The jeweler ordered, and pointed him to the doorway.

“Labourers?”

Harry glanced from the jeweler to the doorway and back again.

“Quickly now, would you!?” The jeweler snapped. “We have an image to maintain, you know.”

The look of disgust in the jeweler’s face alone was enough to send Harry running with his tail between his legs. Just as suddenly as he had entered the store he found himself back on the street corner in search of this fabled other door. He soon found it some six feet away, propped up with a cinderblock.

Through the doorway was a short hallway with a punishing set of narrow wooden stairs. A team of men, each of them tall, not unlike Harry, scarred, not unlike Harry, and bedraggled, not unlike Harry, were taking turns hauling goods from a wooden trailer into the waiting stairway above. One man was struggling with a large, stone pot, and without a second thought Harry jumped in to help him pick it up as rain began to spit down. He seemed to fit in with these so-called labourers a little too well.

At the cost of the well-being of his lower back he found his way in, and he grunted and heaved his burden up the stairs, taking care not to lose his grip on the pot that weighed about as much as he did. When they finally reached the top, Harry and the mover made the mistake of setting it down and resting for several seconds, earning them the ire of a black-tuxedoed servant who was ushering the rest of the men along.

“Don’t just stand there, you animals! Bring it in! We’re about to open!” The footman barked at them.

Harry resisted the urge to argue as the footman marched about the hallway like some little tin monarch. Treatment like this was something Harry kept on running into ever since the Tiny Town fire, and the injustice of it was starting to nip at his fraying psyche. He bit his tongue and hoisted the pot upwards again as the servant kept careful watch of him all the while. Without time to so much as remove his rain-soaked jacket – something that Harry would later be grateful he had not done – the two of them were moving again. Seeing that Harry was eager to make it into the gallery, the man he was lifting it with, an older fellow of about fifty, didn’t pull his share of the weight nearly as well as Harry wished he would. He persevered nonetheless, lugging the pot down yet another long hallway. This one led to a back doorway that seemed to be a hidden entrance into the gallery proper.

Turning inside of it, Harry passed what appeared to be a storage room which was now in the process of being emptied out and converted into a coat check. He passed that doorway, and found himself in a much larger open space where the artwork was being placed. He had no idea that what he was actually moving through was not a gallery, but a dance hall that had been rented out for the occasion, a hidden place that would be the stuff of local legends in a hundred years’ time.

It wasn’t the gallery that Harry was truly focused on, or the pot in his hands, which was now swiftly turning his arms into rubber. It was the narrow possibility that he might find the whereabouts of Joe Piccoli, and he kept his eyes peeled for the paintings he had seen in the newspaper to no avail. The space seemed to host everything but Joe’s art, and it felt more like Billy Hill’s old living room than anything else, filled with masks and plates and exotic artefacts from faraway places that Harry couldn’t name. It reminded him of the display of maiolica at the art gallery, albeit on a much larger scale, and the more time he spent there, the more uncomfortable he became with the place.

He thought back to the question Joe had asked him during their trip to the art gallery:

“Do you giants only like my art because it’s really small?”

It was more than just the art that people liked, Harry had since learned. There were people out there who liked Joe himself for no other reason than because he was really small. As he studied the passing art pieces, he sat with the uncomfortable realization that he too had been one of them. There was a point in his life where he would have loved to gaze in fascination upon Joe’s tiny paintings with little care for Joe himself. Only now, when it was becoming far too late to change anything, did he see the error of his ways.

The pot jerked, bringing Harry back to his senses. To his horror he realized that the other mover was not only faltering, but they were both about to run into a well-dressed man in a white suit standing in the center of the room.

“Easy! Easy!” Said Harry, though the other mover didn’t seem to hear him.

“Where is he!?” The wailing of the man in the white suit was drowning Harry's protests out.

Harry, who was heading towards the man in white whether he wanted to be not, noted that he was inspecting a gilded cage on a stand.

“Easy now!” Harry said again, and pulled backwards on the pot for good measure in the hopes of slowing the mover down.

The mover started pulling the pot away from Harry in turn.

“This is a disaster!” The man in white continued. “The last thing we need is a loose tiny running about! He’s going to frighten away the guests, I just know it!”

At the sound of the words loose tiny Harry’s grip weakened, causing the pot to fall towards the mover and narrowly miss his feet. He yelped in fear and went hopping backwards into the man in white as the pot toppled onto the floor with a thud, and while it luckily didn’t crack, it did roll halfway across the room.

Harry stood there cluelessly as the man in white shoved the mover away from him and then suddenly pulled him in again by his collar, spitting venom like a snake.

“What on Earth do you think you’re doing you ugly, brainless, good-for-nothing idiot!? Pick this thing up, will you!?” The man in white barked. “Don’t you know I have bigger problems to attend to than babysitting you trained monkeys!?”

Bigger things like catching an escaped Joe Piccoli, it seemed. As the mover blubbered his sincerest apologies, the man in white jabbed a finger to a spot over Harry’s shoulder, near one of the beams that held up the ceiling.

“Put it over there.” The man in white growled.

He let go of the mover, and that was the end of it. The men obeyed the orders to the letter, though the mover side-eyed him all the while.

“Of all the people you had to piss off, it had t’be the richest man in London. Well done.” The mover grumbled. “Thanks for nearly breaking my feet, by the way.”

“I’m sorry.”

Harry set the pot down gingerly, taking care not to mash either of their toes this time.

“Who was that?” Asked Harry.

Being the richest man in London, Ontario, to Harry, was a little bit like being the prettiest pig in the pig pen. The mover’s face went blank in exasperation at the question.

“Walter Wilkins. Haven’t you heard of him!? He’s writing our paycheques, you know!”

The disgruntled mover limped off, giving Harry a moment to brainstorm.

So that was mister Wilkins: a short, angry little man with too much money for his own good. Supposedly this was the man who had bought Joe from the snatcher, and Harry had in all likelihood just blew any chance he may have had to speak to him one-on-one. Harry kept his eyes locked on Walter and watched as he crawled on his hands and knees about the gilded cage towards the table beside it, in search of Joe no doubt. Harry’s blood ran hot in his determination to find Joe before he did, but he knew that however he managed it, he would have to do so discreetly, out of sight of Walter or the servants or any other villains lurking in the gallery.

He had just finished that thought when something dark met the corner of his eye, and as he turned and saw what, or rather, who it was, terror froze him in place.

It was an old man in a long cloak and sleek top hat, with a sharp, birdlike nose and wispy white hair. A man whom Harry had learned to fear and obey implicitly. He was headed straight for him and he looked like he was about to kill.

“Father!? Wh… what are you doing here?” Harry did everything he could to make the panic in his voice sound more like good-natured curiosity.

“Buying art.” Said his father as he looked down his nose at him. “What else would I be doing?”

“Uh…” Dumbly Harry looked from Richard to where Walter was crawling about beneath the table and then back again.

“Now that you’re here, everything is starting to make sense. Do you care to help us find that foul-mouthed tiny of yours?” Richard continued.

The blood drained from Harry’s face.

“Excuse me. Whose tiny?” Walter looked up from the feet of the table as if activated by Richard’s words.

“His tiny.” Richard responded before Harry could so much as open his mouth. “I’ve seen the little bugger before. Herman here is the one who trained him.”

“Oh, really?” Walter pranced over with the cage in his hand to where Harry was standing, and all Harry could do was brace himself for the worst.

He had to think of a lie to sell them. Something that wouldn’t let them catch on that he was looking for Joe.

“I… well… you see…” He stuttered.

“No need to explain yourself, I know exactly what to do about this.” Said Walter.

After the fiasco with the pot, Harry was fully expecting that Walter would call security or the police, or at the very least cause another scene. As Harry drew back with his hands at the ready, he wasn’t expecting Walter to thrust something into them with a smile on his face.

It was the gilded cage.

“Take him back to mister Lessard’s then when you find him, will you?”  Walter asked cheerily, as though he had suddenly become Harry’s best friend. “Why, I’ll tip you handsomely if you do. I’ve a feeling the little bastard is out to ruin my show, so if you could be so kind as to take him off my hands...”

As Harry looked down at the cage it took a moment for the words to register. Walter must be mistaking him for a snatcher, and if so, he had just made Harry’s life a thousand times easier. Now all he had to do was find Joe and convince him to get into the cage. If he could manage that, the both of them could walk right out of the building Scot free.

Harry nodded at Walter, too afraid to say anything that might upset their delicate arrangement.

“Wonderful.” Walter clasped his hands together and grinned. “Tell mister Lessard I’ll be in touch.”

His father gave the cage a quizzical look.

“That pastime of yours is certainly… interesting.” Richard said of the cage. “If you’ll excuse me.”

His father turned down the rows of artwork, in all likelihood hoping to get first dibs on whatever early bird specials Walter had offered him. Harry could only hope that the direction Richard was headed led far away from Joe.

Dutifully Harry clutched the cage and scanned the gallery space as Walter turned his attention to the contingent of tuxedoed footmen, all of whom were frantically rushing about and trying to make the gallery presentable. The faster they moved, the faster Harry’s heart pounded. He would only have so much time to look before the guests started pouring in, and once there were a hundred feet on the ground he would have no chance of finding Joe at all.

He started his search around the wooden table that had so fascinated Walter. It bore a guestbook and ink well, and Harry soon noted that the quill had been upended from it and the feathers on the end mangled. Leaning closer, he spied a set of tiny shoeprints soaking into the tablecloth, seemingly leading to nowhere.

Harry had learned to think like a borrower, and he followed the table cloth to the tassel, then to the curtain that hung next to that and concealed a work of some great import. He was about to peer behind it when a pair of striking black eyes caught him off guard from the corner of his eye, and his gaze snapped to them.

Hanging a foot away from the curtain was the portrait he had seen in the newspaper, part of a series that grew increasingly abstract, Harry noted. Each canvas was barely the size of a post card, and they surrounded the curtained work as though someone had built a shrine to the artist who had made them. There were other paintings still, a sad circus elephant, a painting of a man – with features uncomfortably close to Harry’s – wading through a swamp, all of which repelled him in some way.

They felt like Joe’s paintings, and yet they also felt alien to him. The colours were tired and faded, and there was something inexplicably listless about the brush work and the detailing. Harry was stricken by just how few of them there were, and whoever had hung the paintings seemed well aware of that, for a slew of landscape paintings clearly not made by the same artist surrounded them and padded the contents of the wall out.

The artist behind the landscapes had a name, but the miniature painter did not. Harry’s skin prickled as he noted that the placard for each miniature piece read, Artist Unknown.

He turned his attention back to the curtain and was just about to open it.

“Have you found him yet?”

Harry flinched as Walter clutched his shoulder in a manner that could only be described as desperately genial. Walter, Harry could see, was smiling from ear to ear, though the beads of sweat dotting his forehead were betraying him.

“I—no, I—”

“Could you perhaps look over there, then?” Walter asked politely, pointing Harry to some nebulous corner of the room. “We’re about to open you see, and as they say, the show must go on.”

“Right.” Said Harry.

Walter’s voice was thin with tension, and his head bobbed about as he nodded profusely at Harry in a way that felt more puppet than man.

“Good, good, jolly good.” Walter warbled.

Harry had no choice but to bumble about with cage in hand as Walter took his place before the table and patted down his pristine suit. There wasn’t a hair out of place on the man, Harry noted, though whatever shoe polish he had put in his hair was beginning to run.

It was only when the doors opened and the army of impatient guests spilled in that Harry spotted a flutter of movement from behind the curtain next to Walter, and as the giants surrounded the table he hoped against his better judgement that it was only the wind.

One of the servants rolled a silver cart of hors d’oeuvres through the crowd, and with wine glass in hand, Walter commenced his opening speech with Harry as a captive listener.

“Ladies and gentlemen, I must thank you all for joining me here today, to celebrate the birth of a new era of cultural enlightenment for our humble, but no less extraordinary, city…”

More and more patrons filtered into the gallery, to the point that Harry, cage still in hand, could hardly see where Walter stood. He tried to push his way through the crowd nonetheless.

“As we all know, London is sadly well known for its ah, high concentration of the less fortunate…” Walter continued.

Sensing that the cart of hors d’oeuvres was the crowd’s weak spot, Harry very politely shuffled towards it and joined the waiting line, squeezing through any odd break in the crowd that brought him closer to the curtain.

“I wanted to ensure that we remain mindful of that upon this gallery’s opening. It is, after all, the duty of men of our standing to take to the betterment of the world and the lives of those in it. Without our steady hand to guide them with kindness and compassion, the less fortunate are apt to fall to ruin, and take us along with them.” Said Walter, as a ripple of dignified laughter ran through the crowd.

Harry’s head bobbed above the curious onlookers as he kept careful watch of the curtain. His heart skipped a beat as it moved again.

“What’s that?” A woman behind him whispered.

“I can think of no better example of this than the Tiny Town Tragedy.” Said Walter, his eyes gleaming with sadness that had no doubt been carefully rehearsed. “There are few souls more unfortunate in this world than the miniatures, and as that tragedy taught us, they cannot be trusted to govern themselves. We have seen, first-hand, the horrors that befell the ones who tried.”

Walter reached out and pulled the tassel beside the curtain, and as it opened the whole room gasped. Harry, who was fourth in line for hors d’oeuvres, could not yet see what they were gasping at.

“And so, as people of wealth, let us not lose sight of what happens when the natural order is disrupted. Let us instead inspire the lesser among us to be their most useful, their most productive, their most respectable selves. It is my hope that in showcasing this collection we will keep them in our thoughts and – ”

A wave of shocked whispers rippled through the crowd, and finally Harry caught a glimpse of what scandalized them so.

“TINY!” One lady shrieked in terror.

“Get it out! Get it out!” A gentleman barked.

“– and ensure that our… society remains… a civilized place to…” The words tumbled out of Walter’s mouth as the crowd fell into disarray, and his head turned slowly in wide-eyed horror to look at what was really behind the curtain.

Sitting atop the picture frame was Joe Piccoli, presently giving the crowd the finger. His entire forearm was covered in ink, and in his hand was a tuft of slick, black feathers. The canvas within the frame had been vandalized with the face of each figure blacked out completely and the clothing painted over with exaggerated genitalia.

As the onlookers screeched in terror and fled to the corners of the room, Harry watched Walter Wilkins turn white as his suit.

"Excuse me." He said.

Calmly, Walter handed his glass of wine off to a waiting footman. Then his hand shot towards Joe, who leapt from the wall down to the floor, prompting more shrieks from all the well-to-do gallery patrons who huddled into a circle and left Joe Piccoli alone in the room’s empty center.

Alone with the exception of Harry, of course. Clutching the cage, Harry gently pushed the silver cart aside and stayed put as he studied the ring of frightened faces that gawked at the both of them. His father’s was among them, scowling at him, and as Harry stepped towards Joe, who sat between him and Walter, he felt like a part of some twisted circus act.

“Well don’t just stand there!” Walter said to Harry. “Grab him and be done with it!”

The room fell silent as Harry and Joe trembled in unison. Harry looked down at him, utterly lost as to what to do.

There Joe stood, in the ring of gawking giants, looking up at Harry and standing rigid as a boy whose father was about to beat him about the ears. The cage rattled in Harry’s fearful hand with utter disgust, not only with Walter, but with himself as well.

He couldn’t shake the thought of how easy it would be to grab him up and take him. He could keep up the act and put Joe in that cage at that very moment and run right out of the building with him, no hassle, no fuss. He could let Joe out and beg for forgiveness later if he had to. That was the easy way, the path of least resistance. Wasn’t Harry used to taking the path of least resistance?

Even if he was, by now he had seen the snatcher’s den and the jars and the cages. He felt the weight of the metal in his hand as he held it over Joe like some untouchable god. How naïve he had been to think he could ever convince Joe to get into such a monstrous invention after what had happened between them! Joe’s little black eyes sparkled as he looked up at him with a terror Harry himself had put there. This was a bridge that Harry could not cross, for it was one he had burnt long ago. He already knew where it would lead them.

“Go on…” Walter prompted him. “Just pick him up already!”

The crowd gasped as Harry threw the cage aside, and his throat tightened in revulsion as he said the only thing he could think to say to Walter in response:

“Fuck you, mister Wilkins.”

A chorus of scandalized chatter rose from the crowd.

Walter froze in bewilderment.

"I beg your pardon?"

"I said fuck you, mister Wilkins!" Harry repeated, louder and more forcefully this time, as the frightened guests looked on in shock. With nothing more to lose he nodded to where Richard stood and added, “and fuck you too, father.”

Walter glanced back at Richard and did a double take. By now the entire gallery had collapsed into a state of barely controlled chaos and more and more guests shuffled hurriedly out of the room.

Harry stooped down towards Joe, sensing the perfect moment.

“Run.” He said, though Joe still quivered in place. “Go. Now!”

Before he could convince Joe any further, Walter cleared his throat.

“I’m going to have to ask you to leave, mister… Avery, is it? Is this really your son, Richard?” He said, glancing coldly at Richard once again. "Whoever you may be, Herman, I suggest you get out!"

“I’ve never met that man in my life, and I want no part in this.” Harry heard Richard reply, and it neither surprised him nor mattered to him anymore. “Good day, Walter.”

Harry watched in silence as his father walked straight out of the gallery. He could only hope — incorrectly — that Richard had also just walked out of his life forever.

"If you could be so kind as to join him..." Walter said, turning his attention back to Harry.

“Oh, I’ll leave, mister Wilkins,” said Harry, “and Joe can come with me if he likes to, but I’m not putting him behind bars. I tried that once and it didn’t do either of us any good. Why can’t I just let him go free?”

Harry’s eyes darted nervously between Joe and Walter. Why wasn’t Joe running? Walter, meanwhile, was smiling at his shoes with his hands on his hips. When he looked up at Harry his eyes were hair-raisingly empty.

“I see what this is. Some activist demonstration, is it? Have you come here to embarrass me in front of my buyers? Stay put, then. I'm sure the police will be here soon.” Walter snarled.

Harry stepped right over where Joe stood and placed himself between the miniature and Walter as white hot rage coursed like venom through his blood.

“After what you did to mister Piccoli you’re the one who ought to be locked up.” Said Harry.

He jabbed a finger at Walter as the final drop of human decency evaporated from him.  

Walter’s eyes shifted from left to right, taking stock of his art exhibition that was now in shambles. He had the look of a cornered animal, one that Harry was poised to kill. Walter’s eyes, Harry noted, were fixed on Joe Piccoli as he said what came next.

“We’ll see who gets locked up, then, you filthy, tiny-loving degenerate.” Walter’s voice was eggshell thin. “If you won’t cage him for me, then I will take him away myself!”

Harry knew what was coming next, though he barely had time to brace himself as Walter lunged for him. His instincts kicked in and he dodged Walter’s first strike, then narrowly missed landing his own. Walter only flinched for a second, but it was a precious one, for when Walter struck out at him a second time Harry timed it perfectly. He seized Walter’s right hook with one hand and hammered him in the ear with the other, then shoved him back towards the wall.

Harry’s capacity for violence had hung over him like a sword on a thread since the great war, and his encounter with Lessard had sent it roaring back to the forefront of his psyche. He was a big man, built more like a piece of farm equipment than a person, and his hands fit perfectly around Walter’s starched collar. As Walter struggled against him, red-faced and sweaty, Harry wasn’t thinking about him in that second, or his father, or the frightened patrons of the gallery. He wasn't even thinking about Joe. Harry wasn’t thinking at all, for instead he had become a dreadful thing with a dreadful purpose: the terrifying and exhilarating duty to kill. Whether Walter lived or died was secondary to him, as were the terrified people fleeing the gallery, or his father talking to the officer on the street corner.

Harry Avery had never known love, but war had taught him that its purest expression was murder.

He slammed Walter against the wall once, twice, three times, until the canvas behind the curtain shook off and fell to the floor. Walter, half his size, howled like a hyena during the valuable seconds in which Harry gave him any opportunity to breathe.  

Harry was contemplating all the ways he might rearrange Walter’s face when a little voice from behind him stopped him cold.

“Doc, that’s enough! Let him go! He's not worth it. Let's just go home.”

It was Joe Piccoli, who still had not run when he should have. Harry’s humanity came rushing back to him at the sound of his master’s voice, and he tossed Walter aside like a rag doll.

"Please?" Joe continued as Harry turned and scooped him up in his hands. "Let's just go home."

There was a snapping sound from behind them as Walter thrashed about, one that filled him with dread. He couldn’t tell if it was a bone, let alone what bone of Walter’s it was. Not the neck, he hoped. Perhaps he had done it — perhaps he had killed in the name of love. In front of Joe, no less! Cage or no cage, surely Joe thought him a monster after this dreadful display—

“MY ART!” Walter howled. “The ugly brute destroyed MY ART!”

The sound had been the tiny canvas, snapped to pieces under Walter’s own weight. Relieved, Harry paused, clutching Joe as though he were the last thing he had left to hold onto. In one vital miscalculation he turned to face Walter a final time.

“Joe’s art.” Harry corrected him.

For a split second Harry stood triumphantly in the now empty gallery, his purpose served and his good deed done. There was nothing left to do in his mind besides walk out and return to business as usual. That was, after all, what society had allowed him to do up until this point, and what Harry was unaware of was this: the world was one big club, and Harry was no longer in it.

The second he turned back around he was hit not once, not twice, but three times over the head with a baton and then wrestled to the floor. His vision blurred in and out and the voices surrounding him grew distorted. The most he could make out was Walter shrilly asking,

“Did you see the way he lunged at me, officer!?”

The dark-circled eyes of the stout officer he had encountered earlier came into view. By the time he was coherent enough to realize what was happening he was already in handcuffs and being marched through the doorway – with no sign of Joe Piccoli once again. His fingers curled and his eyes darted as frustration burned inside of him.

“Wait—wait!” He protested, though the officer didn’t wait.

He dug in his heels as the officer dragged him down the stairs, across the street, and tossed him into the paddy wagon on the corner — one final degenerate to be added to the collection. Nothing more, and nothing less.  

-

Harry woke to the cold sensation of a prison cell floor against his missing ear as an unfamiliar voice echoed through the stone building.

“…the man at the gallery, Richard, identified himself as his father.” Said the officer – a different one than the man who had arrested him. “Richard told me Herman here showed up at the gallery to harass him and recommended we lock him up in an asylum.”

“Really?” Asked another officer who was clearly half-listening. “Geez.”

“According to Richard he’s one of those, uh… y’know. Those guys who came back from the war and were never the same after. Shell shock, I think they call it? Some new medical thing.”

Harry was relieved to find that his hands were free. He sat up and rubbed his throbbing temples.

“Shell shock? Sheesh, does everything have to have some fancy label these days?” The second officer scoffed. “I went to war, you went to war, we all did. Just call it what it is: cowardice! Cowardice is not a medical condition.”

“Yeah, well, that’s just what Richard’s telling me, okay?” The first officer shrugged.

Harry lugged himself to his feet and staggered towards the bars as the first officer continued.

“So far he’s wanted on charges of assault, public obscenity, swearing in the presence of a lady, suspected tiny snatching… but if he’s as much of an imbecile as his father says he is then it might be easier to throw him in the loony bin. Could send him as early as tomorrow morning, even, depending on when the doctor gets here.”

Harry’s fingers curled around the bars. With each listed charge more memories came flooding back to him. Where had Joe gone? Where had they taken his coat?

“Hey!” When Harry called out into the blue stone corridor he only half expected a response. “Officers! Excuse me, officers? Where is Joe Piccoli?”

“Is that him?” Asked the second officer.

“Yup… hold on.”

There was a slithering sound as the first officer, who was out of Harry’s view, got out of his chair and drew closer.

“Good morning Herman.” The man cheerily greeted him, though Harry still could not see him in the dimly-lit hallway.

“Where is Joe Piccoli?” Harry repeated.

“Who is Joe Piccoli? He a friend of yours?” The officer asked in turn.

Harry’s aching head slumped against the bars.

“Never mind.” He said. “Is the tiny okay?”

“The one at the gallery? We were hoping to ask you the same question. We have quite a few questions for you as a matter of fact, Herman.” Said the stern officer.

Some small amount of relief came over him. If the officers had no idea where Joe had gone there was still a chance that he was out there somewhere in one piece.

“If I answer your questions will you let me go?” He naïvely asked.

“Not if we can help it.” The officer replied with barely restrained sadistic glee. “We’ll get to it when the doctor arrives. In the meantime, if you want anything, just ask!”

With that the officer returned to his place down the corridor and sat back down next to his buddy, quieter this time. Harry, meanwhile, wracked his battered brain for a solution only to find that there was none.

He backed away from the bars, sat down on the bench, and stared up at the ceiling.

Maybe it didn’t matter what happened to him, he figured. Maybe his freedom was the price he had to pay in exchange for Joe’s, and as he sat there in the sadness of the cell he decided there was no place he would rather be. It was the least he could do after all the horrors the two had faced, and all the ones Harry had failed to respond appropriately to. It was only right that Harry got a turn in the cage considering all the dreadful things the world was constantly itching to do to Joe.

He had realized far too late that the two of them were on the same side. As he sat there, he lamented all the time and goodwill he had wasted trying to appeal to people like Walter and his father. For what reason, he wondered.

Safety. Safety was the reason, a very conditional type of safety that could easily be revoked. It was granted on the condition that Harry drifted through life with his head down and his mouth shut and admitted to everyone, himself included, that although he was a degenerate, he was a good degenerate, one that did what it was told, and jumped when they bid it to jump, and honoured its father and its mother and the likes of Walter Wilkins, richest man in London, Ontario.

Harry Avery had never known love. He had exchanged his capacity to love for safety. What Harry had not been counting on was love’s capacity to find him, whether he wanted it to or not, and turn him into something untamed. Though he was now caged, he had never felt a freedom like this before, and he would see the inside of a thousand jail cells if it meant he would be able to keep it for just a moment longer.

This was love, in its purest and most desperate form. Love he had buried and rediscovered far too late, and could now do nothing with. It was love he had squandered, fragile as a pearl clutched in the teeth of a swine, and he held onto it all the same, for whether he died in the cell, in the asylum, or somewhere in the crossroads of the world, he would die holding onto one fundamental truth:

Harry loved Joe Piccoli.

Next part coming eventually!

[theo-n-dulgess]

#so, so, so well written

[theo-n-dulgess]

Rereading Fraction of Justice by @ratcatcher0325, and the detail of Alexander standing arms folded behind his back when he was a pencil pusher kind of stuck in my head. It's both tragic and a contributor to the disciplined and intelligent man he becomes. I highly recommend the series! Recently getting back into drawing, and someone has told me that the best way to advance a skill is to do it indulgently. So, I indulge in doodling whatever I want, everything to the moon and back!

[fireflywritesgt]

The Glint of the Knife

Part 41 of my story! Read the index and content warnings here. This chapter is going to hit like a dose of Buckley's cough medicine okay? A tiny gets injured in this. I'm sorry.

“Joe, what the hell were you thinking doing this? Do you have any idea how much danger you’ve put yourself in!?”

Joe didn’t even have the wherewithal to roll his eyes as Harry scolded him. He danced along with him atop the chandelier instead until he was given a chance to get a word in.

“That doesn’t matter to me, Harry. It never did.” He insisted as he foxtrotted in time to the doctor's pace.

Harry was leading, but only just. Every so often Joe would make a power grab and try to wrest control from him. Even in this context where they were roughly the same size, Harry was still a good head taller than Joe was and far stronger, making it easier said than done.

“So you want to die?” Asked Harry. “Is that it?”

A plume of smoke rose up from the dance floor below.

"Ever think that maybe there's a reason I am the way I am?” Joe countered. “Think about it: I live in a world where nobody really sees me. Where nobody really knows me. Why in the hell would I care about living?"

“Because people care about you! I care about you!” Harry protested, and the dance hall began to glow bright red.

“Not in the way I need to be cared about.” Joe argued.

Wrenching himself back, he forced Harry to follow along with him.

“So I should just let you die then, is that it? Let this whole place burn to the ground with the both of us in it?” Ranted Harry, reluctantly letting Joe take the lead.

In spite of the fire that raged below them, the band somehow kept on playing as if nothing was wrong.

When Joe extended a hand to caress Harry’s face, his heart began to soften. His frazzled hair, his wide eyes, his sweaty forehead, everything about Harry radiated fear. It was a fear like his mother’s fear; the sort of fear that could only stem from misplaced love.

“Harry...” He began, pulling his partner into an embrace, “...I want you to let me live.”

The flames had just started devouring the rafters when the lurch of a falling sensation and the shock of cold water pulled Joe back into the waking world. When he opened his left eye, he found himself staring down a deep tunnel. The right half of his face was submerged, and when he sat up and wiped himself off he was suddenly gazing down a narrow ribbon of piano-black water. Harry, Tiny Town, the fire, all of it had disappeared when the flash of a fist had knocked Joe unconscious, and now he was dazedly trying to piece the rest of the day together. The light was to his back, a dim daylight that Joe couldn’t tell from sunrise or sunset. Footsteps sloshed behind him and the smell of the smoke never quite left his senses – it merely mingled with the pungent scent of algae resting in standing water. From that he could only hope that Tiny Town was still nearby.

He reasoned that he had to be in a drainage pipe of some kind, in all likelihood one that ran out from Tiny Town itself.

“I’m the new Dawson, and that means you pin-heads have to do everything I say!” Barked a voice that Joe knew all too well.

His heart dropped into the pit of his stomach as the sound of it echoed down the tunnel.

“Why do you get to be the new Dawson?” Protested another voice Joe didn’t recognize.

“Because I have the most scraps.” Said O’Grady. “And we’ll get more if we send him down to the lake.”

Looking over his shoulder, Joe could see that O’Grady and his band of merry Irishmen had momentarily left him unattended while they set a tethered tin can onto the water that ran below the opening of the pipe. He started to ease his way into the darkness opposite their direction, keeping low and taking great care not to be heard. Maybe if he were careful enough, he thought, he could lose them if he went further in.

“It’d be too kind to kill him. It's not enough for him to die. He has to suffer.” O’Grady continued.

As he shivered in the draft of the drain pipe, Joe was thrilled to find that he could still move most of his legs. He looked back to the three silhouettes at the opening, now an arm's length further away than they had been before, then into the darkness again, trying to judge its depth.

“She’s floating.” Said a third voice. “You sure it’ll go to the lake?”

“That’s how Dawson did it!” O’Grady insisted.

“And when do we get our payment?” Asked the skeptical second voice.

“We… we’ll figure that out later!” O’Grady insisted.

Joe could make out the sight of O'Grady turning in his direction through the reflections in the water, and his heart leapt into his throat and froze there.

“Wait, where'd he go!? Weren't you idiots watching him!?”

Joe didn't move a single atom of his body as he silently wished himself invisible. It proved a futile exercise.

"You're the idiot," said thug number two, "he's right there! Can't ye see him?"

That was the moment Joe launched himself to his feet and sprinted with the last of his strength down the tunnel. What he hadn’t counted on was the water, knee-deep and sticky, which only grew deeper the further he went. It slowed his efforts considerably to the point that all he could do was throw himself face first into it and hope the thugs wouldn't be able to reach him. He held his breath as long as he could and swam as far as he could, but he could only do either for so long in his battered state. Soon enough a large hand closed around his ankle and dragged him back towards the light as he thrashed with primal fear.

“There he is, our little giant-lover! You’ve been hiding a lot from me, haven’t ya’ Joey?” O’Grady snarled, pulling him by the leg all the way to the opening of the pipe.

Joe didn’t have enough wind in him to scream, let alone speak. He simply trembled in silence as O’Grady lifted him clean off the ground and single-handedly dangled him above the tin can that bobbed sadly in the vast, rushing waters of the Don river.

“What’s the matter? Don’t wanna tell me about your new best friend? That giant that broke the wall – he was the one calling for you like a dog at Calloway’s, wasn’t he?” A hand reached out and placed a knife into O’Grady’s free hand, and his eyes darkened along with his voice. "I thought we were friends, Joe."

Joe squeezed his eyes shut as he stammered helplessly at Tim.

“Tim… come on… what’s the point of this stuff?” Joe gasped, in one last, desperate attempt to get his friend to see reason. “Dividing people, othering them, fighting over scraps… all it ever does is start a war!"

O’Grady’s face curled into a twisted grin, and in that chilling moment Joe had no choice but to accept that O’Grady was not his friend, that he never could be his friend, and perhaps most worrisome of all, that he never really had been his friend to begin with.  

"Oh, but how mighty we could be if we could wage war!" O’Grady spat. “We could be powerful and prosperous and safe and respectable. We could live like the giants. Command and conquer and control just like they do. We wouldn’t have to slobber all over them the way you do. We wouldn’t have people like you at all!” He narrowed his eyes, squeezed Joe’s throat, and leaned in closer. “What a happy place this world would be without people like you in it.” He growled.

“What about your family?” Joe croaked. “The fire? We shouldn’t be doing this. We should be… helping them.” He pleaded through breath that was swiftly leaving him.

“They’re all dead!” O’Grady shouted as he wrung Joe's neck for good measure. “You killed them, Joe! That’s what you giant-lovers always do.”

Joe squeezed his eyes shut, then opened them again. As he glanced down at the reflection on the water below he saw the glint of the knife in O’Grady’s hand.

Even in a distorted reflection, Joe would recognize that knife anywhere. Lightweight and elegantly curved, it was the knife O’Grady had forged himself out of spare parts at the watchmaker’s. It was the knife that had cut the brick of chocolate Harry had given to Joe, the one that had saved him from the snatcher and pried the diamond out of the ring for good measure. It was the knife that had once been a symbol of friendship between the two of them, and now as the clammy hand of one of the thugs pinched Joe's left ear, it was poised to slice that bond in two. It was this knife that would irreversibly alter the course of Joe’s life and leave him a marked man until the day he died.

This was the knife that claimed Joe’s ear.

Do something nice for yourself okay? Next part coming someday!

[theo-n-dulgess]

#NOOOOOOOOOOO #I HAD A FEELING IT WOULD HAPPEN, BUT NOOO #O'GRADY YOUR KID IS ALIVE IN A PUNCH BOWL I THINK

[theo-n-dulgess]

This local, artsy, intended bench (I think?) with its certainly intended purpose to make 5 foot tall people feel 5 inch.

I saw this walking by today, and couldn’t resist the con👏🏽no👏🏽ta👏🏽tions.

[ratcatcher0325]

A Fraction of Justice (Chapter #33)

Chapter #33. Alexander is in for some prime time flustering. Will he keep his cool or lose his grip?

Previous: Chapter #32

Next: Chapter #34

Word Count: 3,835 Read Time: Approx. 30 mins

CW: Physical intimacy

Btw, DM me if you wanna be added to the tag list!

___________________________________

A Fraction of Justice

Chapter #33: Between a Rock and a Soft Place

[Alexander’s POV]

She’d… kissed… me. Her lips left behind a soft, lingering warmth from my cranium to my clavicle. She’d simply picked me up and pulled me in and… kissed me. 

I laid there, forcing myself to stay still long enough to convince her I was sleeping. I kept from moving a muscle, even as my mind raced at breakneck speed, and my heart thundered away against my ribs. Why did my face feel so hot? 

Once the enclosure of her hand went slack, I allowed myself the freedom of opening my eyes.

I was lying with my back pressed into her palm, my head resting on the pad of a finger, through which I could feel and hear the gigantic, steady thrum of her pulse. There was no escaping her presence: her smell, her warmth, the tide of her breathing. Her hand, while just a small part of her, was all encompassing, fully surrounding my entire body. 

I peered up at the woman’s face before me, the slow, rhythmic exhales of her sleepy breathing were just powerful enough at this distance, for each puff of warm air to make the hair on my arms stand up. Her lips, full, soft, and warm were parted just slightly as she slept, blissfully unaware of my eyes sizing up every part and parcel of her face. 

Since the overcast afternoon sun had yet to wane, I had plenty of light to see the rosy pink that accompanied her cheeks, the slight sun damage that dappled the skin across the bridge of her nose, and the incredible length and curl of her thick, dark eyelashes. Her hair cascaded over her shoulder and down to the surface of the mattress on the far side and spread all over the pillow and across the arm that reached out to me. 

How did it get to be this way? I’d gone from being newly discovered, inside of her pantry, writhing and shouting at her, held captive in her palm, to… this. 

Dare I call it tranquility? I wasn’t sure what to make of it. 

The only feeling that had ever come close was how I’d felt when, as a child, I’d snatched away a few blissful hours in the dead of night to read my favorite books. This ritual had given me a moment’s peace from my frightening reality, where I was taken on thrilling adventures, transported to distant worlds and formed bonds with characters I adored, made of nothing at all but the clever, written word. I’d found an escape from my fears and limitations, all while I sat alone in my little corner of a bookshelf in the corner of a room on the corner of a street who’s name I never learned. 

I felt… safe here. Just as I had for all those years, nestled between the pages of a portal to a better world than this. 

But here, now, replacing ink and paper with flesh and bone, I felt safer than I’d ever felt in my life. How was such a thing even possible, when I was this close to a human being? 

Heat rose in my face, while nestled inside her hand, the air around me becoming insufferably hot. 

When was the last time I’d let her hold me while we slept? When I’d been compromised after surgery? My memory of that ordeal was a thick fog, I could hardly remember up from down, let alone any concrete details from that time. 

I felt a rush of heat at the tips of my ears when I recalled her accusations of my rather uncharacteristic behavior while under the influence of powerful anesthesia. How utterly uncouth. 

The rhythm of her pulse, steady as a drum, reminded me of some kind of organic tide, a thrumming exchange of life on a scale I struggled to truly comprehend. What was it like to belong to the world like she did? To be born big enough to be blissfully unaware of the life-threatening dangers I faced on a daily basis?

I thought back over my journey to arrive here, to this tranquil moment, on the massive pillow of an even more massive bed, tucked gently into the hand of someone I’d learned to, at least somewhat, tolerate. 

Memories, laden with the thick smell of mahogany and leather, the ticking of an old Bavarian clock, and the garish light of a gold and green glass lamp came flooding back. I could practically feel the familiar ache in my chest from the seemingly endless hours of fear and loneliness. The equally endless periods of being tossed in some box or drawer when my presence was deemed inconvenient, flooded back to me in crisp detail. My muscles ached in a sort of phantom pain remembering the constant vigilance I’d had to maintain to keep from being plucked up and choked or dropped or flicked or knocked to the ground. 

How vulnerable I’d been in the hands of children, no less, who had come so dangerously close to killing me simply for the twisted joy of the act! Nearly burning me to a crisp in their raging fireplace as if I, in all my sentience, mattered no more to them than my bundle of papers they’d turned to ash. And upon escaping the snapping jaws of a terrifying beast, how massive and threatening every sharp blade of grass, every knotted root, and cracked pavement square was when I was thrust out of doors, forced to fend for myself. 

It was only in that first breathtaking moment of true solitude that I’d realized just how vulnerable I truly was. 

I recalled, with a pang in my chest, the nightmarish ordeal of coming within an inch or so of a car’s massive wheel well and the spine tingling realization of having evaded death by a hair’s breadth of luck. I could never forget the adrenaline flooding my system as I faced the danger of a housecat and the harrowing realization of being discovered by a creature much like myself, yet terrifyingly large, with messy curls, and golden-green eyes, who could now dictate the course of the rest of my life with only minimal pressure from her finger and thumb, if she so chose. 

And then, there was the horror of surgery and the thoroughly damaging torture that had come before it.

Not to mention, the ache in my heart that had flared up again in Charles’s presence, wanting with every fiber of my being to just be seen by others for my potential and not my preciousness as some sort of fragile, living toy. 

My throat tightened as my brow knit. These feelings, boiling beneath the surface, were threatening to overwhelm me… that is, until, I was knocked out of my reverie: literally. 

In the throws of deep sleep, blissfully unaware of the comparatively small life pitying himself down below, Natalie’s muscles twitched involuntarily. Her hand rocked and flexed, tossing me up and suddenly back down again. I bit my lip to keep from making noise, as I spread my palms out to catch myself. But it was to no avail, I watched as her brow furrowed, lips parted and eyelashes began to flutter. In half a second more those irises would land on me. 

My heart raced as I scrambled to avoid her gaze. I couldn’t let her see me like this! I was a total wreck, a blushing imbecile!

Without a moment’s hesitation, I turned my back and buried my face into the hollow of her hand. I hoped my flustered movements hadn’t been enough to tip her off as she crossed from sleeping to waking. 

My heart pounded away, thundering in my ears, as I strained to listen to the woman above and around me. My hearing was now the only sense I could use to keep tabs on her. 

I focused on taking deep breaths to lower my heart rate and simulate sleep. I endeavored to stay limp, hoping to fool her for a second time. 

Why was my heart still beating so fast? 

I heard her mumble, just slightly as she came to, and the rustle of the sheets as her muscles reengaged and she shifted her weight, “Oh…” a delicate whisper escaped her lips. The rustling grew louder as the surface of the mattress where I lay buckled slightly. Please, think I’m asleep… She was getting closer… closer…. 

I clenched my jaw, squeezing my eyes shut, trying my damndest not to twitch a muscle, as my face burned with color. 

I could feel her breath along my back now. My heart pounded at a breakneck speed… she was right on top of me, closing in. 

Would she kiss me again? Press her lips into the small of my back?

It took everything in my power not to tremble at the thought: the horrible, wonderful, terrible thought…when suddenly, a gust of wind tickled my spine as she seemed to breathe a sigh of relief, “Oh thank god!” She whispered as quietly as someone her size was capable, and pulled away again, the swaying of the mattress turning my nervous stomach to knots, “I didn’t wake you? Good.” 

Why did the room feel warmer still when she addressed me directly? 

“… Hello there, Alexander.” She breathed in such a way that I suddenly felt ill and well all at the same moment, “How’d I get so lucky to have you in my life?” 

What was happening to me? I felt dizzy, hot, nauseous, on edge and utterly relaxed all at once. 

“God, you were something today… a brave little knight with his makeshift javelin— Poor Charles!” She sounded like she was suppressing the urge to laugh.

Why was she saying all this?? Did she know I was awake? Was she teasing me?

She paused for a moment, the muscles in the hand that surrounded me seeming to flex involuntarily. Don’t move… Don’t move… 

I was practically starting to sweat. The heat was unbearable, but the silence was even worse. What was she thinking? What was she doing? Was she falling back asleep? I’d all but blinded myself and now the tension was killing me. 

She muttered to herself, a little quizzical sound as if she’d discovered a new thought. My whole body was abuzz, waiting with baited breath. Was she pulling in closer again? 

I wasn’t sure how long I could keep up this act. 

That’s when her words hit my ears once more.

“Thank you for letting me hold you, for trusting me…” her voice was hushed, soft, warm, almost dreamlike. Why did it make me want to melt into a puddle and crawl into a hole out of sight? I bit my lip to keep from moving. 

I heard her breath catch and I tensed, waiting to see what had caused this shift. I could tell she was moving as I heard the friction of skin on bedsheets. Once again, however, she did her best to keep the hand I was held in from shifting. 

What was it?? 

I laid there stiff as a board, ears pricked… nothing. More infuriating silence. 

I had just given up hope, chalking it up to her making herself more comfortable, when I felt it: a point of soft pressure and warmth about as wide as my face suddenly pressed into my back. 

It centered just between my shoulder blades, and then traced down, down, down along my vertebrae. It was featherlight in weight, making my skin tremble and my hair stand on end where it had traced. 

Her fingertip caressed the length of my spine with a precise attention to gentleness even I had to admit was impressive. She drew closer now, the warmth of her breath cascading over me in waves. 

It felt absolutely heavenly and, therefore, was an utter, embarrassing hell to endure. 

I tore at the inside of my cheek with my teeth, hardly able to hold myself together. 

Did she have any clue how she was torturing me?

“If I could kiss you right now without waking you, I would.” 

My breath caught in my throat. I was undone. 

And then, with just as much inconsequential ease as she’d begun, she ended my suffering all at once, with no gusto whatsoever. 

“Goodnight, Little Nightmare.” With that she settled back down on the pillow beside where I lay and presumably closed her eyes.  

That was it? 

I felt my stomach drop as I finally breathed again. 

What was all that?! 

I trembled in the aftermath of the whole ordeal, discovering tension in every muscle group finally fade as air returned to my shaken lungs. I was not a man who often found himself in a position of doubt, but in this moment I really couldn’t decide if she knew I was awake and was torturing me on purpose or if she’d actually meant those things, and assumed they were still a secret to me. 

I wished I could stretch out, or readjust, but I didn’t dare to move a muscle. Not until I was certain she was fast asleep. I was beginning to regret the pose I’d trapped myself in, as my injured knee began to ache and my arm lost feeling. I was never getting any rest tonight, was I? 

Just as I thought things couldn’t get any worse, she twitched again, evidently fast asleep. Her previously slack fingers jolted to life as though each towering digit was charged with electricity. My heart leapt in my chest at the sudden, involuntary movement. Yet, there she was, towering above me, blissfully unaware and fast asleep. How I envied her! 

But her unconscious movements didn’t stop there. Before I could catch my breath, her hand started closing in. Seemingly of their own accord, her fingers wrapped themselves around my body, pressing my hips, chest and face against the soft flesh of her palm. Natalie! What do you think you’re doing?!  My heart thundered away as I feared her grip would get tighter and tighter.  

Her fist clenched around me, fully trapping me in the hollow of her hand, but, thankfully, the pressure remained steady and I wasn’t in danger of being squeezed to death. I breathed a grateful sigh of relief, only to choke on the exhale, as I was suddenly moving again. 

In the reflexes of sleep, she was shifting positions, rolling over and tucking her clasped hands directly over her chest. 

I didn’t even have time to shout before my face (as well as the rest of my body) was surrounded by soft flesh, beneath which beat a human heart, pumping to the relaxed rhythm of unconsciousness. 

In the blink of an eye, I’d gone from lying prostrate in the flat of her palm to finding myself wedged directly between… well, to put it in a polite way, her bosom. 

All the while, she went on sleeping peacefully, completely unaware of the entire humiliating situation. 

Meanwhile, my nervous system was on fire. My face, no doubt, was a crimson shade of red, as I writhed and thrashed about, fighting for air and a chance to decry my current, unfortunate state. 

Finally, blessedly, through some wild contortions, I managed to free myself enough to shout, “NATALIE!!!”

*****

I became aware of a distant voice before I ever opened my eyes. It was a mild disturbance at first, quiet and far off, just tickling at the edges of my awareness. 

But slowly, it got louder and louder, demanding to be understood, “NATALIE!!!“ 

What?! What was it? Did I hurt him!? 

I jolted awake, my stomach in knots, and a strange tightness and warmth on the surface of my chest. Before I even opened my eyes, I sat up in bed and flipped my bedside lamp on. 

As I did this routine action from blind memory, I heard a grunt and small yelp. 

Agony over the worst possible scenario clawed at my sternum as I snapped open my eyes. 

Only… it wasn’t the fear that I felt clinging just above my heart… it was a tiny, blue-eyed, disheveled, little man holding on for dear life! 

Oh god! Somehow I must’ve… cuddled him in my sleep… and now he was stuck with nowhere to go. The heat that rushed to my mortified face outmatched the warmth of his small body pressed against me. 

My heart beat furiously beneath him as his fingers dug into my soft skin, leaving little impressions from his grip. He was doing everything he possibly could to keep from slipping down any deeper. I swear I could feel his legs squirm as he fought for a foothold on my lower sternum. 

He craned his neck to meet my gaze, as I managed to collect my startled thoughts into a few words, “Are- Are you okay?” 

Suddenly, his face turned five shades redder and he tore his eyes away. I’d expected him to shout and snarl at me for putting him in such an embarrassing position, albeit accidentally, but instead, in a half-voiced mumble that was difficult to hear, he responded, “What do you think??” Poor thing, his elbows were practically at the same level of his ears. 

Oh. 

He was embarassed embarrassed.

So much so he couldn’t even muster the will to hiss and spit like he normally would. He stared blankly at the distant wall, eyes wide, tiny nostrils flared, seemingly begging with his whole body (minus his eyes) for me to find a merciful exit from his current situation. 

****************

My jaw was clenched so tightly I half expected to crack a molar. 

I was barely breathing, unable to escape the warmth and smell of her, all around me. I couldn’t last one more second like this. Not this close.

If she so much as uttered a chuckle at my sorry state I was certain I’d die of embarrassment. That, or I’d plot her death for having witnessed me in such a compromising position. 

I held my breath, hoping against hope that she could understand what I needed right now, despite my complete incapacity for articulating it.

Frozen in place (and, luckily, sliding down no further) I counted the beats of my ragged and mortified heart:

One, two, three... 

“Hey…” her voice cut through the noise inside my skull, and I couldn’t help but jump. I gazed up at the sound, finding myself presented with the pad of her upturned finger, resting gingerly in front of me. A life raft, offered without commentary or shame. 

A wave of relief crashed through me, as I clamored to embrace the digit. As soon as I’d encircled my arms around the width of her index, she lifted gently upwards, pulling me along with her. 

The heat of her soft skin was replaced with the slight chill of the air, and in spite of myself, I couldn’t help but shiver and miss the comfort of her warmth. I didn’t have to suffer long, however, as her left hand soon met her right, supporting my dangling legs and stretched spine, so that I was now seated in her palm. 

I coughed slightly, struggling to relax in her grip. I couldn’t make myself look at her. I could feel her energy like an imposing monumental wall, looming over my left shoulder. 

When was the other shoe going to drop? When would she burst out in laughter at this small, pathetic little thing who couldn’t even help himself from being pressed into her chest against his own will? Where was her massive fingertip to muss my hair and dig into my stomach, bop my nose and otherwise bandy me about like an adorable plaything who’d just been made to look utterly ridiculous? 

Once again, her voice shattered the inner workings of my mind, and I bit my tongue, bracing for whatever humiliation I was about to endure:

“Tea cake or chocolate?” 

What?  

I was so thrown by this out of context question that I couldn’t help but meet her eyes, my brow furrowed as I cocked my head to the side. 

She calmly repeated herself, “Tea cake or chocolate? I figure you’re hungry. I know I am, and a snack sounds pretty good right now. Do either of those sound okay?” 

Oh. 

I cleared my throat and clumsily managed a response, “Tea cake sounds nice, thank you.” 

Within a few moments, I found myself gently placed back on my bed, a steaming cup of tea to my right, on my bedside table, and a plate with a few crumbs of cake in my lap. We ate in silence for a moment, before she chuckled slightly, a smile warming her face as she turned to me. 

My stomach dropped, thinking the veil had been lifted and now was the time she’d chose to strike, I practically choked on my current bite. But instead of saying a word about what had happened, she preceded to tell me a story of the first time she’d tried to bake this cake, and, having forgotten to add the baking powder, it turned out horrendously. 

Much to my surprise, I found myself laughing along with her, unburdened by my earlier embarrassment. She was so animated in her storytelling, and was so self-effacing, that she seemed to erase all memory of the last hour. 

I couldn’t believe my luck. 

And when the tea had been drunk and the cake consumed, she simply smiled as she peered at me, clutching her pillowcase as she lay on her side, eyes level with mine, her wild hair cascading all around her, golden-green irises aglow. 

“Back to bed?” 

I nodded, confirming. 

“You’re okay, right? I didn’t hurt you in any way, did I?” Her voice caught in her throat as she asked. 

“No— I, I’m fine. Thank you, Natalie.” 

Her shoulders visibly relaxed at my response, “Okay, good.” She reached for the switch on the lamp, far above me, “Goodnight, Alexander.” 

“Goodnight…” I wanted to thank her, to tell her how much her kind response had meant to me. But the words wouldn’t come. 

I lay in bed, the silence deafening, as my head swam from the rollercoaster of emotions I’d just taken for the last few hours. Why did my stomach flip like that when I was close to her? Did she mean it when she'd said she wanted to kiss me again? Why was there a part of me that wanted her to? Why hadn’t she taken the opportunity to laugh at me for such a hilarious faux pas? Any other human would have. What had changed? She hadn’t shied away from teasing me in the past. Why in the deepest pit of my stomach did I want to crawl right back over her heart and fall asleep there? What had changed?

I asked myself these questions until the mental strain put me to sleep. I supposed my search for the answers would have to wait until tomorrow. Until then, I’d just have to accept not understanding what in the hell had just happened to me. 

___________________________________________

@littlescaryinternetguy @lucentbliss @jae-from-discord @kitn-underfoot @secretly-small

@writing-forever @iinogongju @itsgothgirlthyme @make-me-giant @reborrowing @whatthisfemsheplikes @soapysoap69 @tinystrawberryshifter @thetinylittlespider @certainwizardlady @theo-l-ogeneus

[theo-n-dulgess]

#aw #flustered Alexander is best Alexander #he’s falling… #the respect and realization is so gratifying!

[fireflywritesgt]

Hairpin Turn

Part 37 of my story! Read the index and content warnings here. I'll kick the shit out of Harry next chapter, don't worry. <3 And the chapter after that! And the chapter after that and the chapter after that and the chapter after tha

While Harry was resting his legs with Susie, Joe was having a much more eventful night. He had no chance to react as the table erupted into pure pandemonium at the sight of Danny. The series of events became hard for Joe to follow after that.

First Danny's silver hairpin shot out and landed with a crack upon Dawson's temples, then Dawson crumpled over the table in a daze. Joe was still deciding whether to stand up with the rest of the townies or to stay seated when he caught sight of Danny's hand reaching into Dawson's pocket and pulling something out of it. Then the man to Joe's right, the one who had thrown the boot, launched himself over the table and tackled Danny, sending the hairpin flying.

It spun towards Joe and he caught it while it was in mid air.

"Nice catch!" Said Tim, who was now also halfway over the table in pursuit of Danny.

Just as Danny managed to wrestle the Italian ward boss off of him, the Irish one joined in. Joe looked from the hairpin to the fray and almost raised it in Danny's defence before he remembered he was supposed to be a Tiny Town Tiny.

More and more townies joined the brawl, the German, the Dutchman, the Frenchman, throwing punches and kicks left and right, fighting each other for Danny as much as they were fighting Danny himself. The crowd only grew more aggressive when Dawson, now recovered, straightened his crooked glasses and bellowed,

"A BOUNTY AND FIRST TORCH TO THE WARD WHO CATCHES HIM ALIVE!"

Danny, meanwhile, through some esoteric act of stage magic, had crawled out from beneath the writhing pile of sparring miniatures more or less unscathed.

He and Joe almost would have escaped, were it not for the combined weight of each and every ward boss on one side of the plate tipping the chandelier sideways and causing it to sway.

Joe fell over and crawled as the once horizontal table turned vertical. He clawed at thin air as the floor fell from underneath him and he plummeted along with the rest of the Tiny Town AGM to the death pit of dancing giants below.

His size saved him, as did the fact that the music of the live band suddenly stopped at the interruption. He looked around for Danny, for Harry, for a girl in a green dress, but all he saw were the shoes of stunned onlookers.

That was when the women began screaming.

Joe, terrified, followed the nearest tiny body he could spot as the group of miniatures raced for dear life to find the nearest exit through a wall of moving feet. He had made it to the edge of the dance hall, dodging high heels and half-brogues all the way, when he saw to his dismay he was following Tim O'Grady.

"C'mon lad!" O'Grady huffed and puffed. "We can catch up! Gotta beat those... bastard Italians!"

The bastard Italian by O'Grady's side held onto the hairpin for dear life and frantically searched for where its owner had run off to.

Then he spotted it, by the doorway: Danny, hopping on one leg, still fistfighting the Italian ward boss who relentlessly pursued him. Danny knocked the man back with a mean right hook and crawled like an animal out of it, into the dark of the rain.

Joe didn't think. He just sprinted, fueled entirely by adrenaline. If he could get to Danny in time then maybe, just maybe, they could make it out alive.

Tim had the exact same idea, and soon Joe was racing against him to get to Danny first. The man Danny had knocked down swiftly recovered as well, and the trio scrambled out at a perfectly matched pace onto the shadowy boardwalk.

That was where, in a kinder universe, they would have lost him. Instead, Joe heard a voice rising above the falling raindrops.

“Hey doc! Doc!” Danny Smalls shouted against the rain.

Hesitantly Joe stepped forward, squinting into the darkness. A flash of dry lightning backlit the looming frame of Harry Avery, who was looking down on Danny from a small distance away.

Relief and suspicion filled Joe in equal measure. This was it. This was Harry's chance to redeem himself. To be the romantic hero Joe so needed him to be.

“Doctor Avery, listen!" Danny cried, and Joe's heart split in two as the giant started to turn away.

“Is there something there, Herm?” Asked the dance hall girl, who was still clinging to Harry like a bad stench.

“Just a rat or something.” Harry said, and the two continued on their way.

Joe stood there in total disbelief as his knees shook underneath him to the point of giving out.

"No. Wait!" Joe shouted. "WAIT!"

Harry didn't wait, and neither did the ward bosses. The Italian pounced on Danny and the Irishman did too. They both held him down like a wild beast and Tim let out a dreadful cackle that shook Joe's very core.

It didn't sound like the kind of noise a real person could make.

"Oi, Piero, How about we - split the bounty between wards?" Tim said as Danny thrashed and struggled. "That or Joe here can split yer head open!"

"What are you talking about? He is from my ward!" Piero, the Italian ward boss, protested.

Danny thrashed again, fighting with all his upper body strength to get free. Joe ran his thumb over the silver hairpin. His hands quivered.

"Liar! He listens to me!” Said Tim. “Don't just stand there, Joe! Put that thing to good use! Teach this rotten little insect a lesson!"

Joe's eyes met Danny's. Directing him like always, Danny winked and nodded. Joe looked down at the head of the hairpin. It was oval-shaped with flared art-nouveau embellishments on the edge.

"He's a freak! A degenerate! Delusional! Attention-whoring on silver screens! Teaching the children it's okay to associate with giants of all people! All tinies like that do is hurt people, Joe. They're dangerous. The world is dangerous! Why not hurt him back for once?" Tim ranted as Danny lurched against his grip for the millionth time.

Oh how it enraged Joe that Tim was able to make the most heinous insinuations about people he knew absolutely nothing about.

Joe squared his jaw and tightened his fingers around the hairpin that had no doubt once belonged to Jane. On the center of the hairpin's head, in letters as small as Joe's fingers, was an engraving that seemed to speak for Danny when Danny himself could not.

Just like we rehearsed, it read.

The bodies of between ten and twenty other townies emerged from the darkness behind him. The rest of the AGM had caught up with them, and their eyes were now eagerly locked on Joe.

He looked up at Danny and nodded back. He stepped forward, raised the pin, and prepared to give the audience a show-stopping performance.

-

The beating he had given Danny had been fake. Danny’s reactions had been timed and Joe’s hits had been carefully calculated. That didn’t stop Joe from feeling disgusted with himself afterwards. When all was said and done, Joe had no choice but to watch as the Tiny Town thugs hog-tied Danny with twine.

"Well done, Piero." Dawson said. "And that’s your assistant, correct?” He gestured to Joe. “Two Italians to one Irishman. Looks like the Italian ward gets to throw the first torch."

"What!? No! Joe’s part of my ward! We’re the ones who caught him!" Tim squealed.

Dawson simply rolled his eyes and strutted off as Tim chased after him and begged him to reconsider.

Joe, meanwhile, sidled in as close as he could to Danny while the militia kept close watch over them both.

"Pssst!" Danny breathed. "Joe. Listen to me. Don't do anything stupid."

"I think it's a bit too late for that." Joe whispered.

He straightened up and tried to act natural as the stern eyes of a townie moved in his direction, then wandered away again.

"Look. If we wanna get out of this, we're gonna have to work smart. They're probably gonna burn me at dawn. I'll need to get out of there by then. My tunnels are blocked off and the guards are on high alert. You got ID?"

Joe shook his head.

"You got scraps?"

"No." Joe whispered, then his mind turned back to what Tim had said earlier. "But I know how to get some."

"Then get some." Danny hissed. "You can pay your way in if you're lucky. Tell them you lost your ID or something. I'll be at the garrison building."

"Why did you even go through all this trouble? What'd you grab from Dawson?" Joe asked.

Information. Here, grab my collar -"

Before Joe could uncover the method to his madness, a large boot stomped down onto the side of Danny’s head so hard the impact drew blood. Two heavy hands then gripped Danny's shoulders and hoisted him up from the ground. The detective gave Joe a look that said, good luck and Joe's blood froze as he watched the Tiny Town militia drag him away.

A different hand clapped Joe's shoulder.

"Damn eye-talians get to throw the first torch. Absolute rubbish! There must’ve been a mistake at the registry. No way you’re one of those eye-talians! I'll throw my second torch in Piero's ugly snout, I will!" Tim groused.

Joe was too tired to be scandalized by Tim's words. He had a job to do, and he had to get it done quickly, so he said,

"Take it easy, Tim. I got something that'll cheer you up! About that shiny you were looking for..."

-

Joe crept across Harry's nightstand in the dark of midnight and tried to get his bearings. It had been days since he had been in the upstairs room, and although not much had changed since he had left, the layout of any giant room always threatened to confuse and disorient him. He thought back to the borrowing skills his brother had taught him and tried his best to remember them: stay low, step lightly, always track the giant. How strange it was to move around Harry as though he were an enemy.

The giant himself was sleeping peacefully in the bed beside him, and as Joe looked over he was hit with a twinge of bitter nostalgia at the sight of Harry's neck. Intent as he was on saving Danny, he wanted more than anything for things to go back to how they had been before, back when they had gotten along, when times had been peaceful and Joe had been happy. So lost was he in thought that, when the new companion who occupied Harry's nightstand flapped its wings and beat against its enclosure, Joe flinched and stumbled over in shock.

Glowing in the moonlight was a glass jar that contained a little white butterfly, one that Harry had taken in as a caterpillar no doubt.

Joe looked at it sadly, admiring the many facets in its compound eyes, the little hairs on its antennas, the black spots on its rear wings. It too studied him from its prison for a moment, then went back to flapping about in search of freedom.

To most giants it was of little consequence. To Joe, it was just another thing in a cage.

Joe stepped back and hid behind the jar as Harry, snoring, rolled over to face him. When the giant was done moving, Joe peered out from his hiding place and set his sights on the desk across the room where the ring box lay in waiting. He traced his eyes from the box, to the chair in front of the desk, to a shirt on the back of that chair which Harry had carelessly thrown aside. A sleeve trailed down and touched the floor. That was Joe's entryway.

Stepping across the open book on the nightstand, Joe ignored Sun Tzu's warning:

If you know yourself but not the enemy, for every victory gained you will also suffer a defeat.

He hopped down and darted in the direction of the fallen sleeve with his eyes set on the prize. Soon he was atop the chair, and he ran across the back of it and leapt from the part nearest the desktop onto the surface below.

Harry grunted in his sleep at the sound of Joe's shoes hitting the table.

Grasping the end of the hairpin and pulling it from his belt, Joe approached the metal box and started heaving it open. Soon the heavy lid was lifted, and Joe wedged Danny's pin into the box to keep it open, compensating for the box's long-broken spring. In the low light of that summer night, the diamond in the ring glinted at him as if to greet him, and he gazed at it for a moment with a twisted feeling in his stomach.

He turned back and took a good look at Harry, who was still sleeping innocently behind him. Joe knew that what he was about to do would hurt Harry beyond measure.

Then Joe remembered how Harry had treated Danny earlier.

He drew his boot knife from the other side of his belt, reached for the nearest peg that held the jewel in, and began to get to work. Instantly he regretted his choice when he pried too hard and sent one of the pegs spinning out into oblivion.

Harry coughed in his sleep, sending a surge of adrenaline through him. Maybe he could stop, he considered, but the sight of Danny's hairpin and the beating of the butterfly’s wings in the jar and the haunting fear he carried in his heart all bid him to push forward.

Danny was trapped in a den of monsters, and Joe was the only one who could help him. There was no sending a giant to do a tiny's job, not when he considered all the ways Harry would inevitably fail him.

And so Joe pressed forward, jimmying the pin on the other side of the ring, then a third. The diamond they harboured from him began to wiggle and rock like a loose tooth, and Joe's watchmaking instincts kicked in. He pushed the diamond back and forth, back and forth, until it grew looser in his hands. Then, when the diamond was nearly out he began to pull, and this was Joe's near-fatal miscalculation. His fingers slipped from the faceted edge of the gem as he tugged at it, causing him to fall back. His elbow jutted out, making the hairpin turn with just enough force to send it flying out, and in its absence the box's lid fell with a loud snap.

Joe had escaped a beheading by the skin of his teeth. His relationship with Harry wouldn't be so lucky. The giant let out another series of loud, coughing snores, rose from the bed, and... sank down into it again.

Joe shook as he counted the seconds. Harry seemed still, or at the very least still enough, and the rock was almost out. Against his better judgment he let a minute pass before he picked the hairpin back up and attempted to get the box open again.

He had just set the hairpin back in its place when the bedroom light came on.

"What are you doing!?" Shouted the voice of a giant who at that moment was more animal than man.

Joe's heart barely had the time to fall to the pit of his stomach before Harry's hand swiped out towards him and overtook him with near lethal force. Joe closed his eyes and gritted his teeth as he was clutched slightly too tightly in Harry's shaking left hand. When he opened them, he saw that Harry held a now-empty jar in his right as the freed butterfly flapped up to the ceiling.

"Joe... what are you doing to my ring?" Harry asked again, his brown eyes brimming with barely contained anger. All Joe's strength left him and his long-gone stutter came back in full force.

"I c-c-an explain, Harry, r-r-really. Let me explain." Joe said.

"Oh, please do." Harry growled. "Get in here and tell me why you're taking the diamond out of my dead mother's ring."

Joe spun and tumbled as he was carelessly tossed into the jar. For a moment he scrambled, ran, tried to vault and escape, but Harry kept shaking the jar and throwing him off-balance again. When Joe finally gathered his words together, he didn't think twice about giving Harry the honest answer.

"It's D-D-D-Danny." Joe huffed. "Please, Harry, I g-g-gotta borrow this shiny for a bit! I g-g-gotta get into T-T-Tiny Town. Wh-why-why didn’t you-why didn’t-"

Joe stumbled back and sank against the side of the jar in defeat as Harry's angry face towered over him. He squeezed his eyes shut as he continued.

"Why didn’t you help him?” Joe finished.

“Help him?” Harry repeated, his voice laden with skepticism. “Help him with what? He looked fine to me.”

“He’s not fine, Harry! They're gonna kill him by dawn. They're gonna burn him at the stake. The Tiny Town tinies caught him and I need payment to get in and break him out. Didn’t you see them running after him?"

“I saw no such thing.” Harry replied.

“Yeah well maybe you would have if you CARED.” Joe erupted, opening his eyes. His chest heaved as his voice started to give way. "I-wh-what’s wrong with you? Am I the only tiny you even care about!? Please, Harry, please believe me."

The giant let out a sigh so great that it rustled through Joe's clothes and caused condensation to form inside the jar. With a tilted head he peered down at Joe as if evaluating him.

"You're destroying a priceless family heirloom because a pack of tiny thugs are trying to burn Mr. Smalls at the stake...?" Harry repeated.

"Yes." Joe said.

He stood up slowly, unsurely. He already knew from the tone of Harry's voice and the look in his eyes that Harry did not believe him, but he clutched desperately to the hope that he might still convince the giant anyways.

His heart broke as Harry's face fell into a look that Joe had seen all too often in the face of his own mother.

It was a look of disappointment.

"I don't really believe you..." Harry said as he looked from Joe to the ring. "I'm sorry. I think there’s a more likely explanation here."

Joe's eyes narrowed as he wondered if the really and the I'm sorry were supposed to soften the blow somehow. Danny could be slow roasting right now. He didn't have time for this!

"What do you think I'm doing? Wrecking your things for fun?" Joe retorted.

Harry fidgeted nervously and looked anywhere but Joe's eyes.

“...I think you saw me out dancing tonight and you got mad at me for it. That’s why you’re ruining my ring. Bet you’re trying to pay your way into Tiny Town and leave for good, aren’t you?”

"Oh come on, Harry!" Joe said. "You know me, don't you? Can't you just take me at my word here?"

"I..." Harry let out a sigh through his teeth and finally met Joe's gaze. "I don't think I can, Joe. I'm sorry."

"You don't trust me?" Joe shot back.

"I don't trust anyone!" Harry insisted. “People lie and steal. I'm sure you could, too. Isn’t that basically what borrowing is? Miniatures never give the things they take away back!"

For a moment Joe was utterly lost for words. It was the sort of ignorant thing he would expect to hear from Gutters, not Harry.

“No. Fuck you, Harry." Joe spat. "You think you know more about what I am than I do? You think whatever preconceived notions you have top my lived experiences? That I'm just some mischief-making sneak-thief out to take your jewels!? I thought better of you than that, Harry."

Harry jabbed a finger down at Joe's face.

"And I thought better of you than destroying my things!" Harry was on the verge of shouting too now, but Joe didn't divert his defiant gaze for a second.

Seeing this, the giant reached up towards a shelf and pulled down a piece of paper.

“See this? This is a title deed. It says this is my house.” Harry pressed the deed against the glass of the jar, then slammed it down onto the desk. “You have no right to behave this way in my house. I thought we had gotten over this.”

"Then help me, Harry!" Joe begged. "Help me save him! Get me a different shiny so I won't have to screw this ring up! Or find some other way to sneak me in!"

"In order to do that I'd have to trust you." Harry said as he screwed the jar shut. "But I don't, so you're going to stay in here for a while."

Joe did not kick or scream or jostle or fight. Instead, as Harry calmly set the jar on the shelf, he said,

"You're just like those other doctors. Making me prove shit to you. My honesty, my capabilities, my own fucking humanity, and no matter what I do it's never enough! You don't want it to be enough because your mind's already been made up! I know now that nothing I say or do is gonna change your mind and I'm tired of jumping through hoop after hoop after hoop just to get you to take me seriously."

Joe crossed his arms and slid down against the glass of the jar until he was sitting at the bottom. Deep inside his heart he wondered what it was and where it was Harry had picked these uncharitable ideas up from. This wasn’t the Harry he knew.

"So go ahead, put me in a jar if it makes you feel better.” Joe continued. “It won't change anything. I'm still gonna be me, and you're still gonna be you."

As he turned away, the giant side-eyed Joe through the glass. Harry didn't speak until his back was fully turned.

"You're right." He said. "It's just as you said. I'm the giant, and you're the tiny."

Joe tossed his head back and huffed in response.

"In that case, you can have your name back, Herman."

Harry had reached the doorway now, and Joe couldn't be fully certain if the giant would even hear what he said next. Some part of Joe hoped he never would hear it over the sound of the knocking on the door downstairs.

"...I gave you that name because I love you."

The back of the giant’s head lingered in the doorway.

"...go to hell." Said Herman.

With that, he left the room.

Joe rubbed his face and found to his surprise that he wasn't crying. He was burning with determination instead. The pain had turned into something beyond pain, something that Joe couldn’t even care enough to feel. Whatever this emotion was, Joe was used to it. He had felt it all throughout his life. For that reason alone, he felt oddly free as his finger traced the shape of a cross in the butterfly dust that lined the jar. He no longer had any reason to hope for anything better.

Yet even when he had nothing left in the world, Joe still had art, or perhaps art would always have him. So he placed all his concentration in drawing that little cross, and, partially through nostalgia and partially through force of habit, he found himself in prayer to none other than Saint Loretta. Not the elaborate prayer his mother had recited which he had since long forgotten, but a borrower’s rhyme he had learned from a nursery book as a boy:

Saint Loretta help me out,

There's a rotten giant about!

He rose, repeating it under his breath as he readied himself and flung his body against the side of the jar.

The glass barely budged.

Again he prayed, and again he slammed himself against the glass, looking for the perfect point that would send it rocking from side to side.

It was like the watchmaker's, he noted. He had to work up a rhythm.

His efforts fell in step with the words of the rhyme as he counted each prayer. By the twentieth attempt the jar wobbled. By the fortieth it fell on its side, but faced the wrong way to roll from the shelf. By attempt number sixty, which had Joe wheezing, he had spun it all the way around to the other wrong angle. Finally, by attempt number eighty-three, the jar was in perfect position to roll off and fall. All the while he remained ever vigilant for fear that the giant might come back up the stairs and undo all his efforts.

It was on his eighty-fourth prayer, one for each day and each night that Saint Loretta had been trapped in her own jar long ago, that Joe dashed towards the glass and crashed into it with all his might. His head spun as his prison fell onto the floorboards below and shattered into a mess of jagged shards, leaving him gazing up at the bedroom light in a daze.

Miraculously, he got up from the wreckage mostly unscathed save for a scraped knee. Even more miraculously, the sound of the shattering jar had not yet attracted the rotten giant’s attention.

Soaked in sweat and with his blood boiling, Joe climbed back up the shirt sleeve that the giant had been too stupid to move and soon found himself back on the chair again. He leapt over to the ring box and continued his work.

With a twist of his bootknife, Joe had his prize. Somberly he looked down at the glimmering facets of the diamond as voices rose and fell downstairs.

Joe knew how much pain he would cause by doing this. Oh, how much he knew.

Unfortunately for the both of them, all was fair in the art of love and war.

Read the next part here!

[theo-n-dulgess]

#just realized that “go to hell” was what Georgie told Harry when he confessed #doubleouch #quality writing makes for a hard, gut punch

[theo-n-dulgess]

First post! Was bored at work, had a little spare paper, and our office has a community art wall. Tried drawing Joe Piccoli to-scale, from “The Art of Love and War” by @fireflywritesgt :)

Now the little guy can wreak havoc at my workplace.

Super anxiety ridden about liking g/t, but it really is just another writing trope at the end of the day, huh? I cannot wait for the next chapter, and might as well go on enjoying it, even if I’m afraid of it.