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Chapter 3.

07:15, Monday, the 5th of March. 2028.

---

When I woke up, in my own bed this time and not a tent, I didn't move. I laid there, dead to the world, crusty eyes locked onto the cheap popcorn ceiling. I think I was thinking, or maybe just pretending to think. Remembering? Replaying? Like watching a movie a second time to catch details you missed. Except I was doing it for an entire relationship.

Hrodvitnir Svartur.

Teasing since day one, and it'd only gotten worse as the weeks went by. And I'd kept coming; every shift, every moment I got away from work, I'd find an excuse to be near them, to talk with them. It wasn't love, I knew that, just lust.

Dragons had existed on Earth for barely five years, and my mind already saw them as an ‘option’. I wondered what that said about me.

Desperation? Open-mindedness?

…

…I couldn't daydream forever.

After getting changed into some clean work clothes and running a comb through my hair, I entered the bathroom, only to, as though we were in a cliché romcom, walk in on Hrod. Their front was halfway up the wall, hind paws gripping the toilet rim like a lifeline, forepaws scrabbling at the wallpaper.

My eyes shot open as they met theirs, brown against scorching orange, and, after a moment, they screamed, slipped, nearly banged their head on the sink and fell back. I slammed the door shut, face burning hot.

Twenty minutes later, after I'd made porridge and was watching something on TV, they finally left the restroom. The first thing I noticed was the dark flush on their long muzzle. I'd never seen them blush, aside from maybe a smidge when mid-thrust. But it was a sight.

The pouty glare didn't help.

“You could've knocked,” they grumbled. “Human bathrooms are wretched. I had to clean the seat.”

I snorted and slapped a hand against my mouth to stop myself from laughing. “T-That’s rough,” was all I could manage.

“Half of it was your cum, so you're taking some of the blame.” They slumped down beside me, sharp looking spines bending against the cushions. I looked at them, then at the smaller ones atop their head.

“Did you hurt your spines?” I asked. “You landed on your back.”

“Nah, I'm fine. They're super bendy. More for show than armour. I think someone said that they're kinda like feathers, just without the fluff or whatever it is.”

“Oh. That's how you lie on your back.”

“When we mated? Yeah, they just bend. I've broken one before; it grew back. Didn't even hurt. Watch.” They raised a forepaw and ‘slicked’ the spines back, as if fixing their hair, only for the barbs to bounce back into place. They then sniffed, itched behind an ear with a hindpaw and reached over, snatching the spoon from my hand. “Gimme. Hungry.”

“Fine,” I said, passing the bowl over and getting up. I snagged my backpack from the arm of the sofa and slipped into the kitchen to make my lunch for work. An apple, a beef paste sandwich and a bottle of Sprite. I packed it into my trusty plastic container, added it to my bag and checked the time. Still early, but it'd be cutting it too close for comfort.

“Hrod,” I began, clearing my throat. “You should probably start heading out. My work will be here soon, and so will my mum.” They didn't have a chance to respond; I put my shoes on, brushed my teeth and waited by the front door, phone in hand. They lingered in the doorway, bowl in paw. “Hrod,” I said more firmly.

“Right.” They scarfed down the rest of the porridge before disappearing into the kitchen. Without waiting, I began helping carry their merch into the driveway from the hallway, placing it atop the rain-touched grass, and then the cart itself. The biggest pains were the tables, but they were at least made to be folded. My movements were quick but careful, that mix of desperate determination.

I wasn't sure what the guys from work would think. They worked for the local council, but… yeah, no, wishful thinking.

Hrod came back out. “Are you in the office today?” They asked, moving over to the cart to sort it properly. At my nod, they continued. “Cool, cool. The next sale is, uh, Friday, right? 25th?”

I locked the house up and slipped the key into my zipper pocket. “Two weeks from now. But there's another in a few days. Up near that pig farm. Wakefield about.”

“That. Yeah. I couldn't get a table booked in time.”

“Are you good for money?” I asked, too quickly, heart jumping.

Cars drove by. Those with early shifts and late finishes – one of them poked their head out, probably wondering what we were doing. “Yeah, I’m okay for a bit. I need to buy some more wood and paper, though. Maybe some new screws or…” Their gaze grew distant. “Craft… That’s twenty.”

I stuffed my hands in my coat pockets. It was getting nippy.

Two weeks and I’d see them again, I reminded myself. Friday, the 25th. A quick visit during a shift. On and off. Could I wait that long? Did I want to?

A van could be heard. Loud. Out of shape. Familiar. Work, I realised.

“Can I have your phone number?” I asked, surprising even myself with how desperate I sounded. They looked at me, wide-eyed, before, without a word, they began digging through their supplies. The van rolled closer. My fingernails dug into my palms, harsh enough to sting. Still, they dug, feverish, lips pressed tightly together, backwards-facing fangs peeking over.

The van rolled up. My chest hurt. They were still looking.

“Cole!” called out Tom. “In. Now. No dicking about; you’re making up for the time lost.” He was a slightly older guy – late thirties, early forties, maybe. Not yet balding, yet thinning. Bags under his pale blue eyes. “Max-” And then he spotted Hrod. The man didn't turn, all wide-eyed and aghast, pointing with an outstretched hand. No. His eyes, small and squinty, simply focused in on them, an odd, unreadable look passing over him.

“Haha. Got it.” I turned to Hrod, who had retrieved some ancient smartphone. “Uh, what's your number? I’m a shit typer, so go slow, hun.”

The van honked. I snatched the phone. They gave me an odd look but didn’t say anything. Quickly, I punched my number in, sent a message to myself to make sure it was right and quickly hurried away. “Later!” I shouted, opening the van door and practically throwing myself inside. Hrod shouted something back, but I didn’t catch it.

My phone buzzed with the message to myself. Proof it was real. Proof I hadn’t imagined any of it.

Tom didn’t say anything; he just drove.

#

My job was not an essential one, not by any stretch of the imagination. Admin assistant to a council project manager, but every now and then, my ability to turn a router on or read logs was used for some community event. Usually once or twice a week, every three weeks or so, and my manager was okay with it. According to him, I was getting ‘real life experience’.

As I was responding to emails – basic ones; mostly support and making sure we had the correct zoning codes – Tom called my name, telling me to meet him in one of our many conference rooms. I felt myself begin to flush. I knew what we’d talk about; I knew what was about to happen. I and Hrod had disappeared at the same time, and when he came to pick me up, I was with them.

I was taken down the halls and into a small room just off to the side of the reception, where Tom then left me for a moment. I was glad that I’d put on antiperspirant, as I could already feel myself starting to sweat. I tried to think of what I could even say, what excuses would get me off the hook, let me run free, and leave me in his good graces. I couldn’t lose this job, menial as it was.

But I couldn’t.

There was nothing I could think of.

Nothing.

The door closed shut behind Tom as he entered, a bundle of papers held in a weathered right hand, the sharp edges creased. He took a seat, rifled through the documents and, when satisfied, placed them down with a muted thump. “So,” he began, leaning back in his chair, voice slow and easy, not a care. “Where’d you go?”

“I had to…” Do what? “Hrodvitnir…” Did what? “They, um…” I stopped talking, murmuring, and stammering, my gaze falling to the ground, eyes prickling with shameful, childish heat. Was I crying? No, not quite. More angry.

“Cole, you can't just leave in the middle of a shift.” I looked up. He didn't even look upset, simply disappointed, maybe a little bored. "Unless it's an emergency – and even then you tell us – you are not to leave under any circumstances. Do you get what kind of a position you might have put us in if most of the work hadn't already been sorted, Cole? Or if we’d been doing something more important?”

“I-I do,” I said immediately, so quickly I nearly cut him off. “I'm sorry. Really, sir. It won't ever happen – I mean it. I'll stay to make up the time.”

“Yes, you will, and you'll be paid for it, but I want…” He rubbed at his chin, fingers brushing the dark stubble. “Cole, mate, you're good at this. It's why you're not in more trouble, but, again, this is a professional setting: city council. No dramatics like running off to be with your boyfriend, okay? You won't get any more chances like this. I have to make sure you understand this.”

“I know. I understand” I didn't dare correct him. “I won't- I-I didn't mean to fall asleep; it was an accident, and it won't happen again.” The repetition was making my stomach hurt, but it had to sink in how much I meant it. I had to prostrate myself as lowly as I could.

“Good.” He picked the papers back up, rifled through them and, when he’d decided something, handed me a slip. “You're with me this Wednesday for a conference. Dress smart, no hoodies. Button-up, black trousers, nice shoes.”

I pretended to look at the document, but I was too stressed to read and too busy making sure my hands wouldn’t shake. The way Tom remained in his seat, eyes on his papers, unmoving, only made it worse. Was I supposed to get up, comment on the paper, and apologise again?

I swallowed the lump in my throat and read the paper. It took three tries.

Regional Planning and Sustainability Conference

Leeds Civic Hall, 9:30 AM – 4:00 PM.

• Session 1: Urban Green Space Integration

• Session 2: Post-Industrial Site Redevelopment

• Lunch

• Session 3: Inter-Department Collaboration and Public Engagement

• Session 4: Digital Infrastructure in Small Municipalities

“Oh, wow,” I began, forcing a little laugh into my voice to stall the nerves. “Official.”

“Yeah, we’ve done enough dicking around in the field, getting you used to dealing with people, so now we need to do some actual work.” He flipped a page and leaned back further, one leg crossed over the other. “You want my job someday, right? You want to make it in local government, make a difference?”

“ Yes ,” I said without question.

“Then pay attention to what’s happening when we’re there, how we deal with other departments and the politics of it all.” The word 'politics' was said with such vitriol I was surprised he didn’t say I was one of the good ones. “You’d be surprised – actually, you might not be, but half the shit we do is social politics. Greasing wheels just to get a fence painted. The actual work isn’t demanding, just tiring.” Another page flip. “Six months to get a school zone extended, then the police, then sanitation got involved.” He wiped at an eye, as though even the memory was tiring.

A change of topics, to something I cared about, something I found interesting. I welcomed it and let it drift me away. With papers and meetings to care about, I could pretend what I did mattered.

#

…That's not to say it was fun, not at all. Hours of performing the same monotonous tasks drained anyone, even with the confidence boost, and by the time lunch rolled around, I was buzzing to escape to the nearby shops for something to eat, even with the lunch I’d packed for myself. Tom, oddly enough, decided, with a long, old-man stretch, to join me.

The moment we stepped outside, however, he looked different. Maybe it was the scruffy jacket, or maybe it was seeing him outside the office, but he suddenly looked more… human. “McDonalds,” he said. “If you come with me, I'll pay.” I wasn't one to turn down free food, so I followed. “So, not to pry or anything, but you and that dragon? Are you guys dating? Or courting or whatever the fuck they call it?”

He, naturally, said this as we were waiting to cross the street, with people around us.

“...I don't know,” I answered, stuffing my hands into my trouser pockets just to occupy my hands. “It still freaks me out. I-I don’t know if I even like-” I stopped myself. “You know what a non-binary person is, right?”

“I'm thirty-seven, so not really. But…” He sniffed and itched his right eyebrow. “It's, like, a feminine dude, right? Or a tomboy?”

Realising it was as close as I was going to get with him, I simply nodded. “Sure. And I'm just, uh, fuck, not sure if I'm actually into… that.”

Tom gave me an odd look, thick brows furrowed in visible confusion. “Didn't… Wait, I thought you slept with the dragon.”

The light turned green, and so we crossed, jogging a little, as we both knew how quick the lights changed in the area – downtown was rough for pedestrians, and we were in a busy council office. “Yeah, I…” We were being honest, or whatever the hell the situation was. “Yeah, I did. But what if I was just being desperate?”

He put a hand on my shoulder, a firm, solid hold that stopped me in place. I looked over at him, at the face of someone trying so very very hard not to laugh. “Cole, buddy. I-I don’t think you can be so desperate that it turns you gay, or bi, or whatever.”

I laughed.

It was a short, nervous, conflicted thing because, well, fuck.

“Keep up; we only get 45 minutes,” Tom said, nudging me forward into the restaurant. I did as told, practically throwing the double doors open. We ended up at a small table near the back, close to the windows, the sound of traffic fading but not disappearing. “What do you want?”

“Uh, just a six-piece, please.” He was paying, so I didn’t want to order too much, but the dull, unsatisfied look on his face kept my mouth running. “...With fries and a regular coke.”

“Good man.” He went to the front counter, ignoring the kiosks for reasons that were beyond me. On reflex, I went to check my phone before remembering I was technically still at work and putting it away. I wondered, with thoughts bordering on hopeful, if he was right. Things like prison… Were… No, wait. Bad example, I realised, placing my chin in my palm and idly observing the people in the restaurant. It was work hours, so there weren’t many people, but still, a test.

…I didn’t like any of the men there.

Maybe if they looked softer, maybe if I knew them, or maybe if they were dragons, I might have, but on a cursory glance? The thought made me queasy. Except for one, one person, at the very opposite end of the room, carefully dissecting a fish burger with sharp avian talons.

A gryphon. Tawny, gold feathers up front and soft, brown lion fur at the back. I couldn’t, at least from where I was sitting, tell whether they were male or female, but the softness in their form made me pause.

“You really like animals,” Tom said, dropping the flimsy receipt onto the table and sitting back, phone in hand. “You’re looking at birds when you’ve got a dragon at home? Very greedy, mate.”

Heat flashed through, like I’d been struck by lightning.

“They’re not animals,” I said quickly, half a decibel away from snapping. “T-They can talk and have jobs. Don’t call them that. They get enough as it is.”

And just like that, my confidence vanished, leaving me cold.

He flinched, and for one long, horrifying moment, I thought I’d fucked up, that he’d take it personally, but he merely smiled and held a hand up as if in surrender. “Alright, alright, my bad.” He placed his phone face down on the table. It buzzed, but he didn’t answer it. “Didn’t think it’d take some speciesism to make you show some backbone.”

My own phone felt heavy in my pocket. I wondered what Hrod might have said were they there with me at that moment. Laugh like I sometimes did over maths and Asian jokes, or would they get defensive? My instinct said banter, but… I hadn’t expected them to be soft like they had been the night before. So open, and for me.

For me.

Our food arrived; we ate in silence. At least until I opened my mouth again.

“What do you think of them?”

He was chowing down on a double cheeseburger and waited until it was finished and the sesame seeds were cleaned off his beard before answering. “Mythics? It’s hard to judge an entire people, but they’re alright, I guess. Some dragons can be a bit scroungy, but grypho—”

“I-I meant Hrod.”

He took a sip from his coffee, thought about it and shrugged. “Never spoke to the guy, but they seem okay – always hustling, always chatting. A bit… dodgy looking, but alright.” Another sip, another fry. “Why are you asking me? I’m not gay; I can’t judge how they’d be as a boyfriend.”

“Dodgy-looking?” I took a drink of my own.

“I mean that they’re a literal dragon,” he chuckled. “Don’t get so touchy. Hrod’s cool, okay? And I’m sure you guys will have fun.” The slight tease to his voice almost made me flush, but I pushed it down and pretended to be offended.

Tom balled up his wrapper and leaned back, the chair creaking. “You’ll be fine Wednesday,” he said, catching me off guard at first and then calming me with the change in topic. “Just don’t wear trainers and don’t talk about gay dragons, and you’ll survive.”

I snorted. “That’s a low bar.”

“It’s local government. There is no bar.” He took another sip of his coffee, watching me over the rim. “...What’s up? You need a bit of change for the new outfit? I can front you it.”

I picked at a cold fry. “No. It’s nothing. Just… my mum. She doesn’t really get any of this—me, the whole dragon thing. If she ever found out about-”

“The ‘dragon’ thing,” he said flatly, not at all believing me.

“Yeah.” I tried to laugh it off, but it came out thin. “She’s from a world where dragons were bedtime stories, not, you know, people you could… date.”

Tom blew out a long breath through his nose. “Parents don’t get half the stuff we do. Doesn’t mean they stop loving you.” He shrugged. “You’ll tell her when you’re ready. Or don’t; it’s your choice. Just don’t let it wreck your shot at something better.”

“Better like the job?”

“Nope.” He crumpled his cup and stood. “I’m heading back early – you’ve got ten minutes to sit.”

I stayed a while after he left, watching the staff mop around the tables and the gryphon still dissecting their fish burger like it was prey. Outside, the sky had turned that watery orange that always meant the day was dying.

I told myself I’d survived it—work was clean, sorted, and no trouble. If anything, Tom seemed supportive, even hopeful for me. The meeting on Wednesday could open doors and could help me move up and move out.

But the thought of home made my stomach twist, made me want to sit by myself a little longer.