FSE

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Alan sat hunched over his desk, taking interval glances at his monitor before scribbling away at his notebook.

7x more expnsv 2 attract new cstmr compared 2 keep current cstmr, he wrote.

He was on hour three of studying for the day. Almost done, but a familiar sense of incompleteness crept up on him. It always did. He wouldn't deny that he had gotten a lot done so far, he'd be overwhelmingly ready for the midterms at this pace. Still, he wondered if he could squeeze in one more module of business management before his time block was up. A few extra minutes couldn't hurt.

This last thought he curbed instinctually. He knew from experience: that mindset would have him spending the rest of the night picking off textbook chapters, and then what time would he have for cello practice?

Flicking his pencil onto the desk, he turned in his rolling chair toward his balcony, seeing the bluish-gray hue the sky took on around the evening's arrival. The sliding glass door allowed him a modest view of his quiet, uneventful street. It seemed like no one ever walked or drove down it; a perfect route for his nightly runs.

“H'okay," he muttered as he got up, his chair creaking. The studio apartment was small, as his family had so readily commented, but it was plenty of room for him. He made his way beside his bed, picking up his cello case leaning against the wall adjacent. Unzipping it, he pulled out the maple-wood cello and bow within. Tossing the case to the ground, he set the base of the instrument on the corner of his bed, standing behind it, the bow in his right hand, his left hand stabilizing.

Setting string on string, he played the first notes of Bruch's Kol Nidrei. He was the primary player for this portion of the university's performance, the one scheduled for two months from now. If he started sooner rather than later, perhaps he could actually play a piece right rather than letting preventable errors ruin the harmony people came for.

Blue light struck him, painting his whole figure and wall to his side. He looked to see a ball or something vaguely in that shape. It was right in front of his desk, hovering a meter off the carpeted floor. Pulsing, spinning, and swirling with flaky ribbons of light this… thing, reflected in the pupils of his wide eyes, grew before him. His stomach was cold and sinking down. Before he could even begin to imagine what was taking place before him, the irregular sphere seemed to reach a critical size before the light it emitted grew tenfold, forcing Alan to look away and shield his eyes. The sound was like that of vicious electricity, snapping and crackling until it turned into a crashing wave, and then the light vanished, and with it went all disconcerting noise.

He realized that he'd been holding in his breath the whole time. Lowering his arm, mouth agape, he looked.

That's… he thought. He exhaled shakily. That isn't real. No, that's… I'm hallucinating. I'm hallucinating. This isn't happening.

The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. He let the cello fall onto the sheets and walked into the entryway. In a haze of many stringy impulses, he turned the knob to his bathroom door and went in. Shutting it behind him, he didn't bother to lock it, instead grasping the counter to his side and staring into the mirror.

What the fuck is wrong with me? he thought. Am I losing it? I'm only 21.

He flipped the lever above his sink faucet. Placing his palms beneath the stream, water poured over. He leaned down and splashed his face, painting his skin cold before he turned off the faucet. Snatching a handtowel off a nearby rack, he dried off, and then promptly tossed it onto the counter. He eyed the door to his left. He still wasn't over it.

Why did I see that? He wondered. No, really, like… what even was that? I think I need to get checked out.

Maybe he could stay in the bathroom a while. He probably needed a moment after that. Just to settle down. His heart was still racing, something he hadn't even realized until now. He needed to calm down. He needed…

He needed to get back to practicing. The cello wasn't going to sound better all on its own. Practicing might take his mind off things too. Grabbing the doorknob, he turned it, but only halfway. His eyebrows furrowed, and he tried again. Unlocking it this time, the hinges swung, revealing the entryway to him. And a dragon.

His ass hit the floor hard when he fell back. His hands slid against the frigid tile floor. “What the fuck?" he mouthed, but no sound came out.

Standing in the doorway stood this creature black as night, and eyes of glowing purple. The predatory slits of its pupils bore into him; for a moment that seemed too slow to be real, it was all he could focus on.

The dragon took a step onto the tile. The reality of his situation had finally crept down into his mind, letting itself in.

Shit, shit, shit! What the fuck!?

If he didn't do something he was dead where he sat, for real. This was real life. Clambering to his feet, all premonitions of conventional self-preservation leapt out of the proverbial window of his thoughts, and instead, he got behind the one idea still left: get out and run.

He bolted past the scaled beast only to find jammed between the doorframe and a hard body.

“Sir?" he heard. He stopped. Then he looked down at it.

The dragon was staring right back at him. “What's stricken you? Is it me? Or is something after you?"

Its lips were moving, as was its jaw. To form words. It had a voice. A woman's voice. This reptilian, winged thing, as large as a tiger, a creature only depicted in fantastical works and mythos, was here, touching him, and speaking.

“Uhhh…"

She, or so she seemed to be, backed up from him. “Sorry. Don't mean to be in your way, but I do need a moment of your time," she said.

He stood there wordlessly, questioning and requestioning himself.

Tilting her head, she waited for a response. For a period, the only sound was that of voices outside his front door, growing more distant as they passed down the hall.

She shifted in place, gaze flitting to the ground before it returned to him. "So, I know you probably weren't expecting a dragon this time of day. Gods, maybe you were if that's normal here. Apologies in any case," she said.

Her next words seemed harder to get out. "Is it safe here?"

His stride was shallow and stiff as he left his bathroom, walking to his bed before taking a seat. His eyes were glazed over. “What?" he asked as if he hadn't heard her.

She got in front of him, lowering her head to catch his unfocused gaze. “Ok, what is wrong with you? Did something happen to you? I can fetch a doctor if those even exist."

His lips opened, then closed. “How are you real?" He had accepted it by now, in a far, removed sort of way. It felt like he wasn't even in the room, like he was observing himself and her through a foggy glass. Her face changed immediately, showing a sudden, deep terror, as if he had just turned into the most horrible, repulsive monster right before her. Without another word, she bounded over to the balcony sliding door. He turned his head belatedly. She was looking up, so close to the glass she was almost touching it. The empty sky's forecast light bled into the room, painting the both of them a different value of gray.

“No," she said. It wasn't strained or quiet, her voice was oddly level and composed. From the look she'd just given him, he didn't know what to expect.

“How-"

“When did the last of us die?" she cut him off as fast as he'd begun.

“Die," he repeated dumbly. “You…" He couldn't believe he was talking to a dragon. It was surprisingly easy. “Are there more?" he asked.

She spun back toward him. “You tell me, human. Are dragons all dead or are they- somewhere else?"

Her posture was tense, visibility agitated. He realized her size, truly this time. She had claws and hard scales. Two horns that grew straight and elongated atop a wedge-shaped head, and wings tucked against her back. They resembled purple leather, or at least he thought they did. She had a tail too. Dragons had tails, didn't they? Why was he not freaking out? He was distracting himself, that had to be it. No one would be calm about this. Or should be.

“You said that twice. Dead? There's not any to die. Except for… except for you. I don't…"

She lowered her head. His head was still spinning. If this was real, which he was certain, kind of, that it was, it would be the biggest change to his life ever. The biggest change possible. What was he going to do now? He had to figure something out.

“Gods," she said, her voice thin, yet coarse, cutting with emotion. “I uh…" she looked up, and her eyes were watery, like the beginnings of tears. Could dragons cry?

“I guess it doesn't make sense to you why I'm here, then," she said. Her tone had become shaky.

“Jesus," he said. “You… all good?" He didn't really know what he could do even if he was willing to help.

“Fine. Thank you, but… I'm fine. I owe you an explanation, um… what's your name?"

It was asking his name? His lips parted. “Alan," he said.

“Right. Alan. The future really is strange. Well, Alan," she paused as her voice cracked. When it looked as though she was going to continue, she instead lied down on the floor, setting her chin upon the rough carpet fibers, and covered her eyes with her forepaws. Alan pursed his lips and furrowed his eyebrows.

An honest-to-god dragon in my apartment, and it's crying on the floor, he thought.

And what had she said? The future is strange? She didn't mean that like she was some movie character come from the past or something, did she? Was his life a movie now?

He just sat there. He couldn't leave the room and just have a dragon in his home. He didn't know what was wrong with her or why she…

Yes, he did. He did know. Now that his brain was somewhat used to this newfound predicament, he remembered what she'd asked him. Stupid, he should've realized it the minute she'd said it. If she had to ask if there were any more dragons, it meant she very well knew the possibility of the worst-case scenario. Maybe it really was like a movie. Maybe, it seemed crazy to even think about, but maybe she had come from the past through that light, and dragons had really existed back then. But why had she come here? How did she speak English so well?

The questions quickly became too many to keep track of, and the urge to seek answers grew in tandem.

Her sobs had quieted to sniffles. While she didn't seem dangerous or impulsive, he knew present caution was better than none. He could only hope a misplaced query wouldn't result in teeth around his neck. The questions could probably wait.

“I'm sorry, if what's happening is what I think's uh… happening."

She uncovered her face and looked up at him, sheens of wet lines on her cheek scales.

“I mean-" he stuttered.

Shit, did I already say something wrong?

“I don't understand how you're even possible, but, if something is hurting you so much… we could talk about it. Maybe?"

When her expression didn't change, nervousness began to creep up.

“Or not! Of course you don't have to, I just… wanted to make the offer, and uh- be helpful. In any small way," he quickly added.

“No," she said between sniffles. “There's something more important that's slipped my mind. I need to know if there are any dragonslayers close to us."

“Dragonslayers?"

Had that been a part of her past too?

The dragon closed her eyes and sighed in relief. “Good, so that won't be a problem. Well. I suppose that still leaves me with some explaining to do," she said, wiping her cheeks with her paws. “Forgive me for my outburst, I-" she paused. “Gods, before I lose track of every thought in my head, I'll just start from the beginning."

“It was the one-thousand, six-hundred and ninety-second summer of dominion. Humankind decided it no longer needed us. Dragonslayers got too skilled and experienced in their practices, and even the strongest and largest of us fell. I never fought, I was always too scared, but I saw it. They climbed up the mountains in their magick armor, sending arrows through any dragons defending their homes. I flew away to Marrimore castle in West Prussia. The woman who owned it, she was the duchess of… oh, I can't remember. But she and her family, they were on our side. The people who stood up for dragons, who knew we weren't any different of mind, and that these dragonslayers were slaughterers. The mother of my mother flew me there, and we all thought we'd be safe for the rest of our lives, that the Prussian front would never be broken." Her eyes had glazed over, a reverie of intense recollection evident in her still countenance. “Today, they got into the inner wall. They were pounding on the atrium door, with the royal family, me, and my mother of my mother behind it. My mother of my mother was too weak to fly away this time, the flight to the castle had drained her so badly. But even with her age, her soul had the greatest magick of anyone I had ever met. She cast me away to a place in time where I could be safe. That's what she told me before I was gone."

Alan had to take a moment to process half of what the dragon had just told him. He was actually right. It wasn't remotely comprehensible to try to empathize with her. To even begin to imagine how that would feel. This was a person who'd lost literally everything, and now here she was, stuck in with a stranger in a strange time. But did that mean…

“That was from this world's past?" he asked.

She tilted her head. “What? What other past could it be? Is that a thing?"

That answers that, he thought.

He shook his head. “It must be- just- soul crushing," he said.

She pivoted, setting down on her haunches as she faced back toward the balcony. Again, she stared up into the sky. Something about the way she sat was at once burdened and hopeful. The slouch of her spiky spine accentuated the way her head tilted upward, her wings draped over her back, folded.

No words passed between them. Alan's gaze wandered to his lap, where he watched his twiddling thumbs.

Right, he thought. She needs time to think and process things. Very understandable.

Glancing at her once, he nodded to himself. Damnit, there it was. The awkwardness. Why did he always do this with people? There was natural silence, that was fine and all, but Alan had a spidey-sense for when things got awkward. Whether it was best to talk or keep the peace had now entered an infinite gray area. Either way, he could see it being the better option, but he could also see how each might make things worse or even more uncomfortable.

“Want anything to drink?" he offered and promptly mentally scolded himself.

She kept blinking, her breaths even and steady now. He began to understand that was probably the wrong choice. So, he brushed it off, and in time, he would be able to pretend it never happened.

“Water," she said.

“Oh! Of course." Standing up, he made his way past her, and into a doorway to the right of the balcony. It was an off-shoot little kitchen, only a few cubic feet of walking space. Opening the cupboards above the tile counter, he produced a tall glass. He put it under the fridge's localized spout, and filled it to three quarters. When he walked back in, he found the dragon was no longer on the ground. Instead, she seemed to have taken the liberty of making herself at home. On his bed.

“Ah, the floor's uh… overrated, isn't it?" he laughed half-heartedly.

With a bit of mental gusto, he managed to make himself sit next to where she lay.

“Here's your water." When he reached out to hand her the glass, he realized Alan Maramatsu was a man born without the capacity for forward thinking.

“Crap. Sorry." He looked around for something he could set it on.

She chuckled. “It's fine," she whispered. Dipping her head down, her muzzle filled the glass, after which she began lapping.

“Th- that works too," he said, holding his hand as steady as possible. This was the closest he'd gotten to her save for his initial attempt to escape. It was different now. Way different. Not that he could explain it, he couldn't describe what it was they had between them. Understanding? Maybe. Friendship? Too far.

“What?" she asked. Broken from his reverie, Alan almost jumped. He had been staring at her. Goddamn it all. Now he was awkward and a creep.

She narrowed her eyes, the scaly ridges above furrowing. “Are there law-keepers in this place?"

“L-" he stopped. He thanked God that she hadn't pursued his odd staring. “You mean like the police? Yeah, there's police who keep the law if that's what you mean."

“Police," she repeated, sounding out the syllables. “I have the feeling I'm going to learn plenty of new words here. Anyways, why didn't you let them know about me?"

“Hmm?" he hummed.

“You said you couldn't even believe I was real. Explains why you tried to run at first. But then not once after that did you try to call out to anyone, or try to leave. You're clearly afraid I'm going to kill you, so why haven't you called for help?"

Still holding the glass in the air for no one, he internally scrambled for a decent answer. He didn't think it was that obvious; was he really so bad at keeping his composure?

“I… I- because they would've taken you, or something. I don't know what they'd do. This isn't just a thing that happens. This has never happened to anyone before. Maybe it's normal in your time to just teleport into people's homes, but here it's definitely not! The government- you don't know what that is… basically, the government is an organization of elected people who make laws, kind of like a king, right? But the thing is, something like you has never been seen before. If the world knew, everyone would be clambering to find out what makes you tick, and what you can do. Scientists would want to take samples of your scales and saliva, and probably other… weird stuff. The government would probably order your capture, they would have to! People would see you as a threat to national security. It would ruin any chance of a good life for you, and… isn't that what you want? That's what you came here for."

“Okay… but where do you fit into that?" she asked.

He pursed his lips and set the glass on the floor. “Me?"

“Yes."

“Well, it's not like I'd be guilty of a crime or anything. But they'd ask me tons of questions…"

“Why not do it then?"

“What? I just told you."

“No. There's something else. If there wasn't, you would've gotten someone. You don't have a reason to care about dragons; no cause, no war to pick a side on. Why do you care what happens to me?"

He stood up, beginning to pace about the room slowly. “Why does it matter? I'm not calling anyone, that's it. I'm just gonna…" he sat down in his desk chair. “I just gotta come up with a plan."

As he rested there, thinking, chin in his palm, the dragon observed him.

“Are you still afraid of me?"

His gaze flickered to her before it returned to the floor. Turning in his chair, he faced her. “Yes. But, please don't take it personally. It's just… hard to not be."

She nodded and hummed. “Well, that just won't do."

Hopping down from the bed, she trotted toward him. Immediately he stiffened upright in his chair, gripping the armrests. “What are you doing?" he questioned.

Right at his feet, she rose up on her hind legs before setting her paws on each of his thighs. Her eyes bore into his own. Frozen in place, he was unable to move or get away without, in turn, moving her. The soft pads of her paws contrasted with the prick of her claws against his pants.

“Still afraid?" she asked.

That's what this is about?

“Yes- and this isn't helping," he managed.

“There is only one way fear is alleviated, and that's by letting it settle and drain. If I prove there's nothing dangerous about being around me, you can't possibly be afraid then," she explained.

He shook his head “Ok! But what the hell is this?" He gestured to her, how she effectively stood on him.

“Settling," she said. "You can keep planning. You know this world better than me."

It was a cynical request. His head was spinning as it was, no chance it would be any better with time gone by. But, regardless of what this dragon did, a plan had to be made. If he didn't figure out how to continue his life while harboring a mythical creature, it would only be a matter of when his life fell apart. The vision he had for the future, the things he wanted to do before he died, it would all be thrown away, displaced by a new reality of being the first person to encounter a dragon.

Now that he thought about it, the police would be the least of his worries. The press would be all over him, finding his home, harassing his family. Who knew how long it would be before the attention died off? His entire routine would complicate by magnitudes.

"What's your name?" he asked, realizing he had never done so.

She laughed. "Now?"

After a moment of hesitation, he nodded.

She regarded him with a new kind of speculation. "Kaithgylris."

Oh.

"Kaith- g-" he stopped and tried again, "Kaithgylris?"

"Even humans in the future have trouble with it," she mused. "Ris, if you like."

"Ris. Yeah, okay," he said.

There still lied the biggest problem. In the meantime, there were also plenty of logistical concerns he could distract himself with. What did he have to do for the rest of the day? What could she do for the rest of the day? Where would she sleep? It seemed cruel to make her stick it out on the floor but… was the alternative even a consideration?

Starting with something simple would be best, he decided.

“You uh… hungry at all, Ris?" he asked.

“No."

He supposed there were other things, then.

“You've never watched TV before," he said, more to himself than anything.

She tilted her head.

“Oh there are so many things you haven't seen or done, this entire world must be completely alien to you. Let me up, and I'll show you," he said, trying to stand and quickly realizing he couldn't.

Her eyes narrowed, but she relented and hopped off him.

He got up, snatching the remote from the nearby dresser on top of which sat his TV. Resting back on the bed, he pointed the remote and clicked 'On.'

Light filled the screen, and Ris' wide eyes reflected waves of motion and the gray color palette of the content playing.

"What is this?"

He straightened up when he saw the wonder on her face, and his voice took on, without him realizing it, the slightest air of his lecturing professors.

"It's Forestead, kind of a cliche medieval series, but it's kind of interesting because it's supposed to be historically accurate," he explained. "There aren't any dragons in it, now that I think about it. God, you would literally change history."

She only seemed to take half of his words in. Shaking her head, she asked, "No, how are we seeing this?"

He smiled. This was going to be quite a process, but at least now he had a purpose for the mounds of information the education system had dumped on him thus far. With many hours before the evening would arrive, he explained to her the concept of readily available electricity, the diodes behind the TV screen, the composition of his furniture, and his building, and how their raw, original materials were procured and manufactured into purposed and useful compounds. Forestead played on in the background, paid no attention. Every new topic he embarked upon led to another, tangents upon tangents as he fruitlessly tried to cover every difference between his time and hers. The underlying concept of what society ought to be had evolved.

Her questions were numerous; some of them he could not answer. But at the very least, he had provided her the barest understanding of her new reality. The sun had dipped below the apartment building across the street, and so his room grew dim.

“Oh uh, one second. Gonna turn a light on so, it got dark fast," he said, standing briefly to flick a switch beside the bathroom door before he sat back down. A bit of dread bled into him then. “Crap," he muttered. He hadn't made any progress with Kol Nidrei; his cello had gone completely neglected. Dragon in his apartment or not, that performance wasn't going anywhere, and if he made any noticeable error during said performance, all his effort would be for nothing.

“What happened?" she asked.

“I forgot that I had practice for tonight. Look, I really, really hate to interrupt this conversation, it was fascinating, but I have to practice for my university's exhibition. I've been slacking lately, if I'm being honest."

Leaving his chair, he hastily picked up his cello and bow. String on string. She watched with confused interest.

“Ah-" she began, but was cut off by the first note of Kol Nidrei. It was singular and stable, and it went on for longer than expected before the real melody was introduced. His head was down, watching the placement of his bow. His strokes continued at a progressively faster rate, climbing and descending the strings. The tone was at once imploring and dignified, a pitch that was confidently full, but not too high. It seemed to linger within the same three octaves, content to explore every combination of notes within this range while still conveying a sort of hopefulness; it made one wonder what setting this piece was best suited for. An orchestra? A battlefield? Something about the simplicity of it was\ underlyingly mournful and-

The pitch came out far too low on his next stroke, and he visibly winced.

“Damn," he muttered.

She scoffed. “That was beautiful. Where did you learn that? I have never in my life heard that song," she said.

“Kol Nidrei, Bruch," he quickly answered before setting to play again.

“Wait," she said.

He looked up.

“I know that instrument, there was a young human who used to play it in the village I would visit. Every night, outside the inn, she would come out onto the porch with that instrument, and the little bow, and then she would start playing," she said. Realizing she'd gotten off track from her original intent, she shook her head. “Anyway, she always played the same song. It was very sweet and upbeat, but it was really simple. Probably easy for most humans to play," she paused. “What you just played, I didn't even know was possible, unless you're using musical magick?"

He squinted before he laughed. “Magic? No, no- it's

just from memorizing the chords and the sheet music,"

“Oh!" her expression lit up. “That's right! The sheet music. The little girl always read from paper. I thought it was odd you weren't reading anything as you played. Why don't you? Isn't it harder?"

He set down his bow and sighed. “It… it is. Technically, yes, you aren't supposed to play without sheet music and the conductor's notes, but I like to do it on my own because it helps me remember the notes better. I can't cheat off the sheets, so to speak," he said.

“Hmm." She nodded. “Well, it must simply be a sign of this advanced age, everything seems so complicated, impossibly complicated. I don't know how someone is supposed to understand it all."

He took a careful breath in, then deliberately let it out. “No one does. No one can, really. The bigger picture is too large for just one person to grasp."

“Huh." She seemed to become lost in her thoughts then, the floor once more becoming her point of focus. “Well, where do you fit into it all then? I mean, I assume you're not a prime mini-ster or however you called it, but you seem like you are in a high place of power with all this knowledge."

“That uh…" he smiled and chuckled. “I'm flattered you'd think that, Ris. But I'm very average in this country. I'm not a part of the government. Perhaps, across the whole world, I could be considered very well off, but that's only as a consequence of living where I live, and not my 'position of power,'" he said.

“You're a peasant?"

He started, but couldn't get a word out before he began laughing.

“Well, aren't you?" she asked, struck by his reaction to her question.

“There aren't…" he regained his composure, “peasants in the year twenty-twenty two," he managed. “There are civilians, anyone who isn't in the government is a civilian."

“What's the difference?" she asked.

He scoffed, but then his face bared the appearance of the arrival a sudden, striking thought. “We can vote. Peasants never had that opportunity. But, I suppose in terms of the wealth gap between those in charge and those who aren't, there isn't much difference between now and then." He waved a hand. “I won't get into that."

“Oh," she said, regarding the floor rather than him. “Ok." Glancing at the glass door, her eyes widened. “It has gotten dark, hasn't it." Turning her attention back to him, she hesitated with something clearly on the tip of her tongue. “I assume you have to sleep soon."

He cast his gaze elsewhere, as if he could avoid the implication if he didn't look. “Yup. I do. Gotta get up kind of early tomorrow."

“Mmm," she hummed, nodding. “What for?"

“Um, classes. At the university I attend. You know, like a schoolhouse or… a renowned establishment where experts teach students. Me being the student."

“Sounds important and complicated," she commented. “Like everything in this world."

He chuckled. Patting his legs and leaned back in his chair. “Yep," he said. Her eyes lingered on him, expectant in a way. He had trouble meeting them.

Crap, he thought. What now?

Braving the moment, he looked at her, and as expected, he found her staring. Nervousness sparked in his stomach.

“Well?" she prompted.

Raising his shoulders, he pursed his lips. “Yeah, what's up?"

“Are you waiting for me?" she asked.

He shook his head and put a hand up. “No, you're fine, I'm just… oh I'm just taking my time," he explained.

Her eyebrows furrowed, and the slits of her pupils narrowed. “You're acting strange again. What are you avoiding right now?"

The compulsion to squirm in his chair rose in him. Should he stand up? Walk around? Pace back and forth? It was bearing on him.

“I have to shower first," he blurted, ending with a chuckle, though what he was chuckling at was unclear. Quickly, he stood up, crossed the room, and shut the bathroom door behind him. The light inside shone from the space beneath the door.

Ris was left sitting there, head tilted to the side. There was the sound of spurting water against tile.

When he came back out, it seemed like forever had gone by. He dreaded the end of his shower, drying off, and walking through that door. His hair was still damp, and he wore a towel.

“Sorry," he breathed, a great haste in his steps on his way to his dresser, snatching open a drawer and pulling out an assortment of whatever was on top. He went back into the bathroom with it, and came out later dressed in attire more suited to bedtime. “H'okay," he said, patting himself off, something he did every time he put on clothes.

His breath caught when he saw Ris on the bed, already quite comfortable by the looks of it; flat on her belly, head lying down. Her eyes were lidded, but she still peered out at him. He pursed his lips and nodded.

Right, he thought. He made special note of the nervousness within him, however, and pushed it down. There was nothing more to keeping an understanding between him and her than staying calm.

Reaching down, he propped himself on one arm as he began to descend to the floor.

“Alan," he heard. He looked up.

Her face asked the question without her having to. Are you really about to sleep on the floor?

Halfway between crouching and standing, he froze, pondering. He couldn't let his fear grip him so tightly, couldn't let it show so easily. He shouldn't be like this.

“I know you're still scared," she stated. Raising her head, she patted the blanket. “Come lay down."

A dragon was telling him to do this. In his home. One he could not readily leave because there was, in fact, a dragon inside it. And despite that, the most irrational and self-preserving of his instincts told him to run, and forget whatever havoc this predator might cause. His higher functioning side, thankfully, was more convincing. It told him to at least try and calm down.

Getting back on his two feet, he stepped barefoot toward the bed with shallow, reluctant strides. Closing in, he touched it before he sat down beside the headboard. She as at the foot. He wouldn't be able to get under the blanket without her moving. An obvious no-go in his book. Instead, he opted to lay atop the blanket, shifting until he was flat on his back, staring pointedly at the ceiling.

He heard a sigh and then felt the give of the mattress next to him, seeing her out of the corner of his eye. But, much to the racing surprise of his heart, he felt a scaly weight press against his left arm. The urge to hold his breath was outpaced only the prevalence of thoughts in his head wondering why Ris was laying against him.

“Hope you don't mind," she said. “I know how warm humans are, it's good for my cold blood. Plus you'll get used to me faster this way."

To stand to argue with her felt impossible, even though he had every right to do it, to speak out for what was clearly against his wishes. But it wasn't in him. Perhaps he thought she was correct in a small way. Perhaps simple fear explained it sufficiently.

His whole body tensed when the dragon laid her head upon his chest, one paw placed on his belly.

“Again," she said. “Hope you don't mind."

To think that even a dragon could find humor in his discomfort.

“I gonna shut the light off, if that's ok," he piped up.

She made something between a hum and a grumble in response. With his right arm, he reached the switch on the wall, along the brim of the headboard, and flicked it.

Blackness filled the room, and it somehow seemed quieter. All he noticed was his breathing and hers.

Having not realized it before, the brunt of his sleepiness made itself known, drawn out by the lack of light and sound. His thoughts wandered erratically. Questions, what-if's, future worries, and plenty more. However, out of everything he disliked about this situation, the worst part was how unfairly comfortable it was to be snuggled by a dragon.

Maybe he'd forget by the morning.

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Thx for reading you puppies; yes it will eventually get naughty and that continuation will come soon (February 22nd)