Aldren Firmin was born in the spring of 1569 to a peasant family struggling for a meager existence on the harsh soil of late-medieval Europe. His world was Earth, within the realm of Reality.

He was the fifth child born to Margaret and Richard Firmin, and the third to survive infancy. His two oldest siblings, a brother named Henry and a sister named Matilda, had both died in infancy before he was born.

As a farmboy, Aldren's main task was to tend the geese and horses belonging to Lord Edmund. The animals in his care possessed cleaner coats and fuller stomachs than he ever did.

Aldren had a love for the arts and would watch from afar as nobles danced and sang. They appeared so happy and carefree, a stark contrast to the suffering he witnessed when he returned home to his village. His aspiration to become a noble was a common dream among peasants, but to him, it felt intensely personal.

The boy watched beloved family members die one by one from illness and tragedy. What hurt the constantly grieving boy most was being told that his family's suffering was their birthright. The horrible mantra that hard work purified the soul was constantly forced upon him. The notion that all this misery was simply because he was born a peasant both infuriated him and broke his heart.

Worst of all was the fear. Aldren was young and had dreams; despite the difficult work, he loved being alive. It was these dreams that kept his spirits high throughout the day. The thought that any possibility of a happy life would be ripped away from him, all because he was a peasant, filled him with a deep sense of dread and heartbreak.

From his experiences, Aldren drew three conclusions that would shape every decision for the rest of his immortal existence:

• Life is inherently unfair.
• No rescuer is coming.
• Anyone who wants more must create it for themselves.

He saw that the world was unjust, yet also incredibly beautiful. He felt it would be a shame if he died before he could enjoy it, just as his deceased family members had.

By age ten, he was sneaking away to village taverns. There, he used his innocent appearance to lure men into underestimating him at dice and cards. He intended to gamble his way into a life of luxury.

Unfortunately, his parents immediately took every coin he won, and they quickly came to depend on their son's peculiar talent. What began as occasional winnings soon became the family's primary source of income. The weight of this responsibility settled heavily on Aldren's young shoulders.

Aldren continued to mimic the mannerisms of the nobility he saw passing through town. To the upper classes, he was invisible. To his own people, however, he became an object of light ridicule; he was the boy who dared to dream too far above his station. Though he was generally liked, his aspirations kept him from being truly accepted by the other peasants.

The encounter that would forever alter the course of his life occurred during one of his regular visits to a gambling den. He found himself seated across from a man named Riu, who boasted that he was unbeatable. Riu, as it turned out, was the god of Fortune.

Being a god, Riu defeated Aldren time and time again, but the boy was not deterred. Despite having little money, Aldren was gracious in defeat and bought the god plenty of drinks. Soon, Riu became drunk. Seizing the opportunity, Aldren suggested a final, ultimate wager. If the god was truly so skilled, perhaps he should bet his own godhood. In return, Aldren would bet his mortality. It was all or nothing.

When the final die came to rest, Aldren was the victor, for he had cheated while Riu was too intoxicated to notice. In that moment of triumph, Aldren claimed not only Riu's wealth but his divine essence: the godhood of Fortune. Realizing what had happened, Riu flew into a rage and threatened to destroy everything in sight. A bystander tried to restrain him, but Riu threw a punch. The bystander punched back harder. Then the bystander's friend joined in, followed by his wife, her affair partner, and his brother. Soon enough, the entire tavern was fighting Riu. Succumbing to his now-mortal wounds, Riu died in the bar fight while Aldren narrowly escaped.

With his newfound divinity came an ability beyond mortal comprehension: the power to manipulate probability. To match his new nature, he chose a new name for himself: Plushfri.

His gambling became incredibly successful, as he now used his divine power to ensure victory. Soon, his parents amassed a hoard of wealth. Plushfri repeated the trick he had used on Riu, claiming numerous other godhoods and adding more coin to the growing family fortune. He was excited to finally branch out and experience the world, but his parents had other plans. They used one of the godhoods he had won to erect a powerful forcefield around their property. This barrier shielded them from their peasant neighbors who demanded a share of the wealth, from any lords or kings who might see the Firmin family as a threat, and from tax collectors. For many years of his childhood, his parents heavily monitored everything that came and went. Plushfri was only permitted to leave to go gambling, and he was required to return with significantly more than he left with. He found himself trapped, unable to stay and unable to run away. His own godhood was not enough to break the barrier, and he could not bring himself to abandon the only family he had left to pursue true freedom.

During this period of confinement, Plushfri watched as his parents beamed with pride while the house filled with illegitimate children. Both Richard and Margaret were perfectly content with the children being born out of wedlock. The family now consisted of his parents, himself, and his new siblings: Millicent, Sadon, the twins Elmer and Ulric, Vermilla, and Asherah.

Armed with divine power, Plushfri was frequently banned from local taverns. He was too good at gambling, and most people assumed he was cheating, which often led to bar fights. This reputation ironically granted him a new freedom, as his parents allowed him to explore further lands in search of gambling spots that were not yet aware of his abilities.

Plushfri threw himself into a life of hedonistic exploration. He was always away from home and never truly connected with his much younger siblings; to them, he was more of a myth than a brother.

By age sixteen, he had shed every trace of his peasant origins. He adopted the sophisticated manners of courtly society while retaining the sharp survival instincts that had kept him alive. He existed in a liminal space, belonging to neither the upper nor the lower class. Because Plushfri had no known lineage or connections, most nobles assumed he was a common thief pretending to be one of them and refused to accept him.

He cultivated a reputation as a rebellious figure who would sneak into high-society parties, reinforcing his status as a person of myth. Plushfri was viewed more as a supernatural legend than a divine being.

Ultimately, Plushfri was focused on having fun and partying. The nobles never truly accepted him as a person, and the feeling was mutual. He did not see them as people either, but rather as individuals who simply had more opportunity. He did not mind that he was never taken seriously and was viewed as a source of entertainment, because having fun was all that mattered to him.

During his teen years, Plushfri experienced his first genuine love affair with a peasant girl named Adelaide. For a brief, shining moment, he allowed himself to believe in the possibility of a lasting connection. Their relationship was intense and passionate, but it was ultimately doomed.

It was also during this era that he met Zachary, an altruistic visionary with an ambitious proposal. Zachary asked Plushfri to fund his project of transforming hells into neutral afterlives. He also requested help in acquiring godhoods so he could better create his ideal version of the world. In return, Zachary promised that Plushfri could rule one of the realms.

Working together, they took a desolate, unnamed realm and reshaped it into Andara. This new domain was a semi-sentient purgatory, designed to reflect Plushfri's conviction that fortune should smile upon those bold enough to grasp it. Andara became both a playground and a refuge for Plushfri, a place where he could indulge his every whim while maintaining complete control over his environment.

The realm possessed a unique, unpredictable property: it reincarnated newcomers into new forms based on their inner nature, a feature that aligned with Plushfri's deepest beliefs about personal responsibility and self-determination. To Plushfri's horror, this process began to affect Adelaide, slowly turning her into a rabbit. He tried to stop the transformation but found that he could not. Adelaide begged him to abandon this dangerous fantasy world before it could hurt anyone else. When Plushfri refused, she escaped back to reality.

Abdulbari began his existence as a prop in a travelling marionette troupe. Carved from pale Himalayan birch, he was selected for his lighter complexion, dressed in Victorian waistcoats appropriate for the era, and drilled to perfection by his Puppeteer. Abdulbari’s two arms rose and fell only when their strings were yanked. He was never taught to improvise or to want anything for himself; his purpose was only to obey, bow, and be polished. The rare moments he attempted to speak off-script were met with a sharp tightening of his strings. Any trace of his Indian heritage was methodically buried beneath layers of Victorian varnish.

The puppet was a dreamer who longed for romance and mastery over his own life. Despite his circumstances, he was polite and shy. He loved when the Puppeteer would read to him, as it was the only thing that could quiet his restless mind.

Maestro was also very kind to a family of small spiders known as Moonspiders. He would grant these creatures refuge within the safety of his hollow chest, where they could rest. In this quiet space, Maestro would talk to them about his woes, and the spiders would listen. Eventually, they decided they had to help their friend.

Before one of the shows, the spiders sought out a god who might be able to intervene. They found Plushfri and gave him a flyer for the troupe's next performance. Plushfri was initially hesitant, having no real desire to go to Reality. Still, he considered the flyer and thought to himself that he might get something out of it. With that, he decided to attend the show.

During the performance, Plushfri noticed the lonely panic behind  Abdulbari’s glass eyes. It stirred an instinct in Plushfri that was deeper than simple amusement. That night, he slipped into the puppeteer's caravan, snipped the marionette’s strings, and whispered, “Do you want to leave?” When Abdulbari nodded, they fled through backstage curtains and leapt between dimensions, landing safely in Andara.

There, the former puppet chose a new name for himself: Maestro. His early freedom was as nerve-wracking as it was wonderful. In the nurturing environment of Andara, Plushfri found himself in the unfamiliar role of a patient guide, teaching Maestro how to make his own choices. Maestro rehearsed every smile in a mirror, often tripped over his own feet, and clung to Plushfri’s hand as they explored museums, bustling markets, and street concerts. Awe, nerves, and a growing love filled his wooden chest, but eventually, wonder drowned out his fear.

The relationship that developed between them was unlike anything Plushfri had ever experienced. Where his past affairs had been marked by passion and inevitable abandonment, his connection with Maestro deepened through shared creativity and mutual growth. They established a workshop near Plushfri’s house, collaborated on artistic projects, and built a life of comfortable domesticity. Their days were filled with violin duets at dawn, stolen kisses on the balcony by night, and occasional dimension-hopping escapades whenever they grew restless.

One stormy evening, a brood of moon-spiders sought shelter in their workshop. Instead of turning them away, Maestro offered the hollow cavity of his torso as a refuge. Moved by this act of kindness, the spiders' gratitude transformed him. They granted him their dormant divinity, and he became the God of Aspiration. Two additional pairs of arms unfolded from the grain of his ribcage, turning him into an even more accomplished creator. This period marked the closest Plushfri had ever come to true contentment.

Plushfri’s Perspective

Ah, what a performance it was or so I assumed. Truth be told, I remember very little of it. Not because I was distracted, but because I was...enthralled. You see, among the puppets on that ornate stage, there was one marionette whose sadness bled through his painted smile. Birchwood, black hair like spilled ink, and red paint at the joints as if he had bled for the art of performance. His eyes...oh, his eyes. That was where I saw it. That same quiet ache I once carried in my ribcage like a brick. Trapped. I know that feeling too well.

I have avoided my home realm, Reality, because of it. I know how that realm pulls responsibility and servitude from me like marrow from bone. I escaped it. I swore I would never be tethered again.., and yet, the moment I saw him, I knew. I knew I would take on the responsibility of freeing this marionette.

That night, when all the revelry of the performance had faded and the audience’s laughter gave way to crickets, I saw it from the street: the puppeteer, that cruel miser cloaked in velvet and shadow, wrestling the marionette into a glass display case. A case to be shut away and stilled.

I watched their silhouettes behind the curtain of a window. The marionette argued calmly but with trembling dignity that he could hang his own strings, that he should sleep how he pleases. The puppeteer huffed, then relented... only to resume the cycle the following night, no doubt.

He sat on the windowsill after that marionette, bathed in starlight and sorrow. I remember thinking he looked like a music box that had never been played.

I took a leap of faith through a window, or rather, I threw a rock at one.

Tap. The marionette startled. Tap tap! He looked down and saw a ripped up plush doll (me). I had taken on my plush form, the one sewn with golden goose feathers, and waved my tiny stitched arms as frantically as I could.

"Save the doll! it is filled with golden feathers!" he yelled.

The Puppeteer, ever the greedy fool, took the bait and opened the window, but by then, I had vanished into the caravan.

Oh, I was clever, was I not? I snuck inside just as he turned his back. It was smaller inside, or perhaps the puppeteer was larger. Strange, before stepping foot into the Caravan, I was only a foot taller than the Puppeteer, and now, I was not much taller than his ankle. Truly, I was doll sized just as the marionette! I watched him pick up the marionette by his strings with the care of a man lifting his wallet, not a person, and the way the marionette’s body went limp... I hated it. Hated it.

I waited for the lights to dim. Then I leapt for the display case. I was face to face with the astonished marionette.

Close and breathless, I could see that his joints were far too polished for how dulled his spirit was. I nibbled gently at one of his strings like a mouse. He gasped, slumping to the bottom of the case. I put my hands up in peace.

“I am terribly sorry, sir,” I whispered. “I am just a fan. A dedicated fan, who would appreciate your autograph...”

He blinked and took the paper I handed him. A poem, yes, but more than that a message. The first letter of each line:

E xcellent preformance
S urely the best play I have seen
C an you tell me why you are so handsome
A accept my most humble apologies for my intrusion
P erchance, do you desire a new life
E gg
?

He stared at it blankly.

“My apologies,” he said softly. “I cannot write. I would only ruin your beautiful poem with my mark.”

My heart cracked, but I did not press it. Instead, I took his hand and looked into his eyes, pouring my entire question into him without words: Will you run away with me?

The way his face lit up... oh, I knew then I would never forget him. I untied his strings, gently, like loosening shackles from a friend. aWe tied them instead to the foot of the case. We tugged together. The glass fell. CRASH!

“ABDULBARI!!” the puppeteer shrieked, barreling in and tripped like a fool over our carefully laid twine. I grabbed the marionette’s hand. We ran. He stumbled, but I held him. I heard the old Puppeteer scream: “You always come back, Abdulbari! Because you know you cannot survive in the real world! You are neither worthy nor capable!”

I spat on the road behind us and summoned a portal with a wave of my hand. The field of flowers caught us in their softness as we tumbled down.

“...Are you alright?” I asked.

He blinked at me. “Are you, you are human?”

“Oh, darling. I am Plushfri.” I puffed my chest proudly. “A doll, sometimes, but a God of this land, always.”

“This land?” He looked around, wide-eyed.

“Welcome to Andara, the land of dreams. Here, you can be anyone you want. Go on grand adventures, and discover joy.”

“And my name,” he said, pausing, “My name is... no, no, I am my own... Maestro. Call me by that title, please.”

“Hello, Maestro.” I smiled. My heart sang.

“Hello, Plushfri.”

“Oh, come, let me show you something.”

I led him to the edge of a still lake where the stars reflected like diamonds. “Would you like to hold them?” I asked.

He laughed. “You cannot give me the stars.”

“Oh, but I can.” I reached down, scooped a palmful of shimmering light, and handed it to him.

He stared, speechless, and then I threw one up, up into the heavens, where it streaked with light and color and returned to its rightful place in the sky. One by one, others followed, drawn by the signal.

In that field, in the hush between universes, I looked at Maestro.., and he looked at me when he thought I was not looking. I did the same. 

It was a warm late afternoon in Andara, the kind of golden light that made even dust motes look like magic. Plushfri and Maestro strolled along the riverbank near the edge of the forests, close enough to Plushfri’s estate that one could still hear the gentle hum of musical flowers tuning their petals.

Maestro tilted his head, four arms folded behind his back as he walked with Plushfri who today was dressed in lavender and mint, with golden stitching and a particularly flouncy ruff that bobbed gently as he moved.

“Why do I not ever see anyone dress like you?” Maestro asked, his expression both curious and genuine.

Plushfri glanced at him with a smile. “Ah, there are several medieval villages in Andhra. They wear garments of old: surcoats, coifs, heavy leather boots. There are also Renaissance fairs in Reality. I rarely visit either.”

“Why not?” Maestro asked.

Plushfri’s eyes softened, and he looked out at the river. “They remind me too much of my childhood. I prefer to see things I have never seen before.”

Maestro nodded slowly. “Do they have dogs?”

“They have a food called hot dogs, not made of actual dogs, thank goodness” Plushfri said with a smirk. 

There was a beat of silence as Maestro squinted up at the trees, clearly thinking very hard.

“Did you ever have a master?”

Plushfri blinked. “I... did apprentice work for a scriptwriter many decades ago, yes. He always rewrote my lines. I did end up performing many of his pieces, though. Oh, and as a boy, I tended to the geese and horses of Lord Edmund.”

“When do you sleep?”

“When I pleased,” Plushfri said, now amused. “Is this a game?”

“Do you have a pack?”

“Of cigarettes? No,” Plushfri laughed and pulled a little roll of strawberry gum from his sleeve. “but I do have gum.”

Maestro took one politely, chewing with a thoughtful expression. Then, very cautiously, he asked, “I wish to ask an odd question, but you must promise not get offended.”

“I promise!” Plushfri arched a playful brow. “ Let us hear it the answer to the riddle!”

Maestro took a breath. “Plushfri... are you, or have you ever been, or will you ever be... a puppy?”

Plushfri nearly choked on laughter. “What?!”

“You think about it!” Maestro said, animated now. “You have a pack, you nap at will, you do what you want, you are affectionate and untamable, and your clothing ” He gestured fervently. “Tell me what you are wearing right now.”

“Flat shoes, stockings, gloves, shorts, a doublet, a ruff–”

“Exactly!” Maestro pointed. “you are literally wearing a collar, and what is it called? A ruff. Which is the exact noise a dog makes.”

Plushfri gasped, placing a hand dramatically over his chest. “How dare you!” he cried. “To compare me, the god of fortune, to a creature who chases sticks and howls at the moon !”

Maestro laughed, utterly delighted. “And now you are barking at me!”

Plushfri sniffed, but his lips twitched. “Well! If I am a dog, then I shall bite!”

Their laughter joined the river breeze, soft and warm, and as they chased each other, as always, the strangest and happiest pair to grace that riverbank.

[A Meadow near Plushfri’s House. Early in their journey together.]

Maestro (mocking tonelessly, imitating the Puppeteer): "Abdulbari, do not get your strings tangled as you run. Abdulbari, be mindful that a bird does not catch you. No, Abdulbari, you cannot go near fire, or apply lacquer to yourself, or try to adjust your strings, or take tickets, or pass out drinks, or do anything other than what I command you to do."

*Pauses, then quietly, bitterly*

"Abdulbari… you cannot do anything!"

Plushfri (gently): That was cruel of him, but you are free now, dear Maestro. Is there anything you want to see?

Maestro (quietly): I-I have a question, Aldren.

Plushfri (smiling): Again, we are friends. Call me Plushfri. Aldren is my formal name.

Maestro: Right, right. Yes, um... What is it like to have a... an, um...

Plushfri (encouragingly): Yes?

Maestro: This is going to sound strange but... what is it like to have a mouth... made of flesh?

Plushfri (delighted): It is wonderful! , but since I have been with you, I have seen there is very little your mouth can do that mine cannot. Except... hmm. I can purse my lips to spit on someone, or to share a kiss. Now, if you wish to prove me wrong–

Maestro (excited): Oh, do both to an enemy you are hopelessly in love with!

Plushfri (laughs): Yes! And what else... oh! When I was a boy, my older cousin would tease me relentlessly because he could whistle and I could not. Well, then he lost his teeth in a duel and only I could whistle and he could not! Ha! So... how is this, Ellet?

*Plushfri whistles. A bird replies in the distance.*

Maestro (in awe): Woah, that is amazing! You know, I wonder if I can whistle.

*He tries. It sputters out.*

Aw...I have no lungs.

Plushfri (smiling and offering his face): Here, inspect my lips if you like. *He makes silly faces as Maestro curiously inspects his mouth.* You know, you are made of wood, and there are holes at your hinges. If someone, someone were to press their lips to your face, I daresay you could be played like a flute.

Maestro (earnestly): Hmm. Would that work?

Plushfri (teasing, sultry): In my experience, I always make noise when someone presses their lips to mine.

Maestro (puzzled): Hmm... I wonder when that would be useful.

Plushfri (a little disheartened but still smiling): You do not have interest in being close to another?

Maestro: No, it is just... I am thinking about the applications for such a noise.
Embarrassingly, I have found that the hinges of my face will whistle in strong winds.

Plushfri (trying to understand him): So... you are satisfied if air nymphs kiss your face. Are there any other elements or creatures you would not mind–

Maestro (suddenly inspired): What if I could invent for myself a set of lungs! 

Plushfri (still trying to flirt, slightly annoyed but endeared): I have always found that having a heart and a really pretty chest has-

Maestro (interrupting): Then I could whistle like you! Oh, but then again... what is the purpose?
Perhaps to feel the emptiness in my body. There is so much room...

Plushfri (dryly): I coul-

Maestro (still inspired): Oh! I could fill it with water 

Plushfri (tugging petals from a flower): Water in your lungs, that is called drowning, dearheart.

Maestro (still inspired): I could fill it with air– 

Plushfri (still playing with flowers, murmuring): There is usually always air in a set of lungs. Oh, would you like to know the one thing better than breathing? It can fill your heart, your lungs, your mind, and your soul.

Maestro (looking at him now): Hmm? What is it?

Plushfri (surprised): Oh I actually have your attention this time? Are you sure? Are you positive? Are you absolutely positive?

Maestro (smiling): Yes! Sorry, I just get so inspired sometimes.

Plushfri (smiling back): Poetry. That is what I feel frees a man and makes him feel whole. We should go to a library sometime, not just the one in my home.

Maestro (delighted): Ah! That would be amazing, Plushfri.

Plushfri (carefully watching him): Yes… it would be on a day. A specific day we planned. Like… a date. With just us...

Maestro (cheerfully, innocently): Yes!

Plushfri (gently, hoping): So... would you like to go on a date... with me? It might possibly be... romantic.

Maestro (smiling brightly, still not understanding): Of course! Is it that bookstore in Rome I was talking about?  Also of course I want to go with you: You are my ride!

Plushfri (slowly nodding, deeply confused): Maestro, have you ever read the book titled *switches to German* „Ich fange an zu glauben, dass du mich sanft abweisen willst. Und das ist in Ordnung, aber ich bin mir nicht ganz sicher. Dies ist das komplizierteste Gespräch, das ich seit Jahrzehnten geführt habe. Ich liebe dich, Maestro, und ich möchte einfach, dass du glücklich bist, ob mit mir oder mit jemand anderem. Obwohl, wenn du mich nicht liebst, wäre es mir lieber, wenn du es einfach sagen würdest. Du bist ein so neugieriger, lieber Mann, mein Maestro.“

Maestro (genuinely amazed): Heavens… what a long book title. What is it about?

Plushfri (quiet, taking a breath): It is about a beautiful poet… And an inspired, lovely, wonderful, handsome, talented, and worthy inventor… Falling in love.

Maestro (softly, awestruck): Woah… that is something.

Plushfri (blinking slowly): I am going to rest for the trip. *He falls face-first into a bed of moss.*

Maestro (whispering to himself): ...Wow. I wish that story was about us.

Plushfri spun on his heel, a flick of pink and white silk catching the sunlight that dripped through the forest canopy. “Here you are, my Maestro” he purred, joy glittering in his eyes, “Alive and free and untethered and ready to seize life like you never have before!”

Maestro stumbled behind him, his wooden limbs clicking softly over the mossy earth. “Ah, that is true, I have never seized it,” he echoed, incredulous. “and I will surely stumble for all time with no strings to coordinate my movements”

Plushfri smiled, utterly delighted. “No you will not. You are perfectly capable of living your life as you see fit.” He struck a pose atop a fallen log, arms open to the heavens. “But worry not. You may follow me to the corners of the world for all time.”

Maestro blinked. “I want to, but…I… I am unworthy.”

Plushfri’s brow quirked. His lips curled. “You are unworthy?” he hummed, hopping from the log with featherlight ease. “Then I suppose I will find someone who is.”

Maestro stopped dead in his tracks. “What?”

Plushfri strolled on, casually tossing a glance over his shoulder. “Oh yes. If you will not be my wonderful, confident, talented, worthy, fun, gorgeous traveling partner…” He sighed dramatically. “Then surely someone else will.”

Maestro’s segmented hands clenched at his sides, and his eyes narrowed. He stepped forward, catching up despite the slight unevenness in his gait. 

“You know,” Plushfri called, skipping nimbly between roots and glowing mushrooms, “if you do not hurry, I might just flirt with the next wood spirit I see. I hear they have very strong limbs—”

That was it. Plushfri ran. Maestro’s body moved before his mind could catch up. He ran like he never had before. Not in fear, nor desperation, but for the sheer, burning need to catch the man who made the stars seem dull by comparison. His steps no longer faltered. His limbs no longer hesitated. His form, though carved and controlled for so long, moved confidently of its own will, wild and powerful and full of purpose.

Plushfri turned mid-laugh, just in time to be tackled gently by Maestro. They fell down a low hill, cushioned by a bed of soft moss and six strong arms.

“Well, well,” Plushfri began, breathless and gleaming, “looks like someone—”

Maestro kissed him.

It was neither tentative nor polite as Maestro had always practiced. It was claiming and utterly possessive. Plushfri’s eyes went wide. His breath hitched. His fingers curled around the collar of Maestro’s shirt, clutching him like he never wanted to be let go.

Maestro pulled back just an inch, horror dawning on his face. “I—I trapped you. I did not mean—”

Before Maestro’s insecurities could rebuild their walls, Plushfri pulled him in again, and this time, there was no hesitation. Plushfri’s hands tangled in Maestro’s hair, Maestro’s arms held him like a prayer answered.

In that stillness, Maestro stopped thinking, and Plushfri, his sweet, scandalous, ridiculous doll, melted against him like he had been waiting to be claimed his whole immortal life.

The sky over Andara shimmered like a sea turned upside down waves of cotton-candy clouds swirling with violet and rose, streaked with sunlight and laughter. It was the annual Sky-Festival, a celebration thrown by the cloud nymphs. Everyone came with their brightest silks and widest smiles. Today, the skies were not only open they were playful, fluttering with hundreds of floating kites in every shade imaginable.

Plushfri twirled beneath the drifting streamers of a fire-breathing drake-kite, his curls bouncing as he spun. Cheerfully, he passed the kite to Maestro, before skipping toward the refreshments.

Maestro, shy and modest, stood a little ways back from the main festivities. His wooden fingers gripped the kite string tightly, arms steady. His expression was peaceful soaking in the light, the wind, the quiet miracle of simply being free.

A cloud nymph noticed his loose grip. Without thinking, she flitted down with a gentle smile and said, “Oh! Let me help, sweetheart,” before taking the tail of the string and tying it snugly around his wrist.

She meant it as a kindness, but the moment the knot pulled taut, something in Maestro’s body changed into perfect, terrible stillness.

His shoulders locked. His warm, glassy eyes that always shimmered with curiosity dimmed. The kite danced above, joyful and oblivious.

Plushfri returned with two glasses of lemonade clinking merrily.

“Darling,” Plushfri cooed, “I have returned with beverages, and neither of them are alcoholic. Are you not proud of me?”

No reply. Plushfri blinked. “Do you need a second, dear? Too much excitement for the day? Do you wish to return home?”

Still nothing. He set the drinks down gently on a nearby cloud. “Is this some kind of joke? Are you being avant-garde, or are you upset with me? If you are, we must communicate.”

No movement. Not even a twitch of an eyebrow. Plushfri stepped closer. The smile wiped from his lips. He reached out, fingers trembling slightly, and placed his hands gently but firmly on Maestro’s shoulders.

“Maestro. Look at me. Please. you are scaring me.” Nothing.

Plushfri stepped back and inhaled sharply, trying to ground himself. He bit the side of his finger hard, as his eyes roved Maestro’s form.This arm, no, that arm, his wrist was tied with thin piece of string.

“Oh… oh no,” Plushfri whispered, rushing forward again. With trembling care, he untied the knot from Maestro’s wrist. The moment the string fell away, Maestro gasped just sharply enough with the force of a soul slamming back into a body.

“Oh, hello Plushfri!” Maestro exclaimed, his voice full of relief and brightness. Then his face crumpled in confusion. “Darling? You are tearing up. What is wrong?”

Plushfri stared at him, breath hitching. Maestro instinctively cupped Plushfri’s face in two of his hands. 

“You… you were not here,” Plushfri whispered. “You were gone. You were not talking, you were not moving. I thought I thought I lost you.”

Maestro looked down at his wrist at the kite string still fluttering in the grass. “Ah,” he said, softly. “Yes. That… happens when my strings are tugged.”

Plushfri blinked back a wave of emotion. “I wish… I wish you had told me that this happens. You frightened me.”

“I did not mean to scare you,” Maestro said quickly, shame flickering in his tone. “I apologize.”

“It is not your fault, but now we know: no more string around your body, especially around your wrists.” Plushfri murmured, gently smoothing Maestro’s rumpled collar and running his fingers through his hair. “You had me so worried.” Then, with a flick to Maestro’s nose: “You absolute fiend.”

Maestro grinned sheepishly. “Can I fly the kite now?”

Plushfri blinked. “Now? You have been flying it for the last several minutes.”

Maestro tilted his head. “I have?”

Plushfri’s smile faded into something more concerned. “You... do not remember?”

Maestro shrugged, rubbing the back of his neck. “I remember a nymph tying the string to my wrist, and then I became an outside observer. I was outside of my body.”

Plushfri’s throat tightened. “Maestro... how often were you strung up?”

Maestro did not meet his eyes. “...A lot.”

Plushfri almost collapsed. A few tears slipped free before he could stop them, falling in silent trails down his cheeks and landing softly on the cloudy foundation. Maestro wiped them away before taking over the kite.

Maestro sat stiffly on the edge of a park bench, arms folded too tightly against his chest, four of them clenched in spirals of frustration. 

“I am never going outside again,” Maestro despaired. “I am unfit for it.”

“Oh come now. They were squirrels. You are made of wood and you were holding peanuts. It is reasonable that they mistook you for a tree.” Plushfri said gently, setting down the picnic basket with a sigh. 

“I-I am sorry,” Maestro muttered. “It is against my better judgement, but I am having regrets about leaving the Puppeteer.”

Plushfri’s smile faded. He walked over and sat beside him. “You do not want to go back,” he said quietly. “You are just scared. You tasted life, and it bit back, but that does not mean you retreat.”

“I want to hide,” Maestro hissed. “I want to crawl into the root of some ancient tree and rot.”

“No,” Plushfri said, voice sharpening. “You do not. You want to live.”

“I am an adult,” Maestro began. “But I can barely read anything more complex than a script. My handwriting is abysmal. I can barely walk without stumbling. I freeze up when talking to strangers. I can not even ask for directions without rehearsing the sentences and still getting them wrong, and you, your hands, your penmanship, your charm, I envy them so deeply it makes me sick, and then I am ashamed for envying them because you have been nothing but kind to me.” His voice cracked, and two of his hands covered his face. “I care about you so much and I am proud of you. I want to rise to you, not drag you down.”

There was silence, and then warmth, Plushfri’s arms wrapped tightly around him. Plushfri’s voice shook. “You do not need to be me,” he whispered. “, but if you dislike yourself, you can change that. You need a therapist. there are classes for most of the things you mentioned, I want to commission you to have a workshop, but even that, even that will not help if you do not start loving yourself.”

Maestro blinked rapidly, his glass eyes fogging with tears.

Plushfri pulled back just enough to meet his gaze. “Only you can give yourself the mercy you need. I love you, but you have to meet me there.”

There was a tremor in his voice, now rising.

“You think you are the only one who was held back?” Plushfri’s voice cracked. “I was a prisoner in my parent's mansion. Do you know what it does to a person? I was a child!”

His voice trembled with anger, then softened, trembling with something else. “I fought to be this free. I clawed for it, and I have never stopped, and now I am fighting for you!”

Maestro held still.

“Yours is not a battle against some old puppeteer,” Plushfri said. “This is a battle against yourself. Against the voice that tells you that you will always be less, but you are not…Maestro. These are fixable problems. I will go to a calligraphy class with you. We can take you to a therapist. We can do yoga for your coordination, or dance, or whatever helps you feel like your life is yours.”

He cupped Maestro’s face, gently brushing over the ridges of the puppet’s carved jaw. “But don't you dare sit here and feel sorry for yourself when we have options. Don’t you dare let that damned puppeteer still pull your strings after you worked so hard to cut them off.”

Plushfri kissed his forehead. “You are a free man, and you are so, so deserving of life.”

Maestro finally broke. His wooden form trembled with quiet sobs, pressed into Plushfri’s embrace like a ship crashing into harbor. Plushfri held him through it.

“I care about you,” Plushfri whispered. “, all of you, even the messy parts, especially the messy parts.”

“I want to care about myself too. I will try. For you.”

Plushfri pulled him closer. “No. For you. I will just be here every step of the way.”

"Maestro, dearest," Plushfri announced, "prepare thyself! Thou art about to witness true theatrical genius!"

Plushfri waved grandly. "But I must first warn thee: One of my many divine gifts is the ability to detach my own head."

Maestro blinked "...You what?"

Plushfri placed a hand over his heart with the gravity of a priest making a solemn vow. "Fear not. I do this all the time. It is perfectly safe. However, it can be... alarming to those of more delicate disposition."

Maestro shook his head slowly, already resigned to whatever chaos was about to unfold. "Just, just do not throw it at me."

Plushfri grinned wickedly, and with that, in a seamless, elegant motion, he plucked his own head from his shoulders, cradling it with both hands as if it were a sacred relic. His body staggered slightly, adjusting its balance without its crown, but quickly regained its composure.

"Behold!" Plushfri cried with glee, holding up his own head for Maestro to see. "Tonight, dear Maestro, I reenact the most tragic and profound moment of Hamlet!"

He cleared his throat dramatically, and then launched into the famous monologue with astonishing gravitas: "Alas, poor Yorick! I knew him, Horatio—a fellow of infinite jest, of most excellent fancy!"

He lifted his own head higher, gazing at it mournfully, his voice rich with theatrical grief. His detached head wore a solemn, almost pitiful expression, while his body wobbled around for full effect, hands cradling it delicately like a tragic lover, but then halfway through the speech, Plushfri paused.

He turned the head slightly, admiring it with a playful, almost mischievous gleam in his eyes.

"Ah," he sighed, voice turning dreamy. "but what a skull it is! What a divine, delicate jawline! What perfect, kissable lips!"

Before Maestro could even open his mouth to protest, Plushfri dramatically brought his head closer to where his body’s missing head should have been and pretended to make out with the air. He even ran his fingers through his own hair, tilting his head at an absurd angle to deepen the imaginary kiss, moaning ridiculously loud like a lovesick fool.

The sight of Plushfri's body clumsily trying to "seduce" its own head with Plushfri's detached face wearing a look of ecstatic devotion was just too much. "Oh gods, stop, you are going to kill me!" Maestro gasped between fits of laughter.

Plushfri, still cradling his own head like a priceless artifact, gave a delighted wink. "And thus," he declared, striking a proud pose, "does one court even oneself! For if I shall be denied the love of another, at least shall I remain enchanted by mine own beauty!"

Still wheezing with laughter, Maestro stumbled forward and gently guided Plushfri's body to sit down before anything worse could happen. "Come here, you are terrible," he chuckled, helping Plushfri reattach his head with the same tender care one might use to fix a beloved doll. "If you are going to kiss anyone, at least let it be someone who can kiss you back."

Plushfri, head properly back in place, blinked up at him with a sly smile.

"Oh? Is that an offer, Maestro dearheart?"

Maestro flushed lightly, looking away with a sheepish grin.

"...Maybe."

The meadow stretched around them, lush with late spring bloom, the tall grasses sighing under the golden breath of the afternoon sun. Plushfri sat cross-legged on a stone, his prized silver flute gleaming at his lips.

He played, and oh, what music! A sweet, lilting tune that seemed stitched together from laughter and wind and the smell of flowers. The sound drifted through the meadow, and, in moments, the trees rustled with life.

Little birds began to appear, finches, sparrows, bright thrushes, all drawn to the music like moths to a flame. One, a small golden bird with a chest like a flame, fluttered down and perched daintily on Plushfri’s outstretched fingertip.

Maestro, seated nearby, clapped lightly, marveling.
"You make it look so easy, my beloved... may I?" he asked, already reaching tentatively for the flute.

"Of course!" Plushfri said brightly, offering it with a flourish.

Maestro brought the flute to his lips. His brow furrowed in earnest concentration, he was so careful, so determined not to ruin the magic Plushfri had made and blew. The tune came out a bit... off-key. Not terrible, but certainly not the symphony Plushfri had conjured.

And then, there was a sharp whirrr in the air. A streak of red and black swooped toward Maestro's head. A woodpecker.

Whack whack whack!

"Ow! Gods!" Maestro cried, swatting helplessly as the little devil pecked furiously at his wooden cheek.

"Shoo! Shoo, thou villainous fiend!" Plushfri cried dramatically, waving his arms. He shooed the bird away until the woodpecker, thoroughly insulted, flew off into the trees. Maestro sat there, stunned, his cheeks slightly scuffed, his six arms all half-raised in different defensive postures. Plushfri, barely restraining a giggle, hurried to him and took his face into his hands with infinite gentleness. His thumbs brushed lightly over Maestro's face, smoothing over the little peck-marks.

"Oh, my darling," Plushfri cooed, tilting Maestro's chin up. He leaned in and kissed Maestro's cheek, first where the woodpecker had pecked, then again, and again, and again, peppering Maestro’s face with quick, sweet kisses. Peck, peck, peck. Just like the woodpecker, except each one was a kiss of love. Maestro let out a laugh, warm and unrestrained, a sound that always made Plushfri’s heart flip over in his chest.

"There now," Plushfri whispered against his lips, "Is that not the kinder way to be pecked?"

"Much kinder," Maestro murmured, dazed with happiness.

Despite the love and happiness he had found, Maestro could not erase the buried shame from his origins. The psychological scars left by the Puppeteer manifested as a persistent feeling of being clumsy, unfinished, and unworthy without a controlling hand to guide him. He became convinced that if he could only touch Heaven, he would finally prove his worth and be made whole.

Plushfri argued against this obsession, insisting that happiness cannot be found on a map and does not come from external validation. Yet, his love for Maestro ultimately overcame his better judgment, and he agreed to help with the reckless scheme. They devised a dangerous ritual to graft divine wings onto Maestro's wooden frame. The plan required Maestro to extract Plushfri's own divine blood, a substance known as Karta that manifested through Plushfri specifically as golden geese feathers, and fashion it into wings. To ensure the delicate process was not interrupted, Plushfri allowed himself to be bound so his over-protective godhood would not lash out.

Mid-ritual, as Maestro began to fly with his newly fashioned wings, Heaven itself recoiled at the attempted intrusion. The reaction was catastrophic. A rift tore open in the fabric of reality beneath Andara, and Maestro, only half-winged, was yanked into Barul, a barren underworld of gray stone and endless despair.

Drained of power and still restrained, Plushfri could only watch helplessly as the man he adored fell to his doom. The guilt was immediate and crushing, born from the realization that his inability to help Maestro find value in himself had led directly to this tragedy.

The sun was just beginning to dip beyond the marbled horizon of Andara, casting long shadows through the veils of honey-colored mist that clung to the hills. This quiet would not last.

With a dramatic whoosh, the front doors flung open, caught in a swirl of ribbons, trinkets, and glittering fabric. Plushfri Firmin stood framed in the doorway, his arms thrown wide, curls wild from travel, his cloak billowing like a pageant banner.

“I have returned!” he sang, spinning once for effect. A cascade of tiny bells chimed from the satchel slung across his chest stuffed with fragrant leaves, golden bones, at least three stolen rings (two cursed), a miniature lute, and a jar labeled ‘suspicious nectar, do not consume’.

His eyes sparkled. “Maestro!” he called out into the house. “I have trinkets, and tales, and a fresh kiss waiting on my lips, if you are not too busy!” Silence answered him.

Plushfri blinked. His boots clacked softly across the wooden floor as he stepped into the main hall. No rustle of parchment. No whirring of gears. No six-armed marionette half-muttering equations while forgetting to drink water. Odd.

He checked the study first, then the conservatory, then the upstairs hall. The workshop was still and eerily clean.

“Maestro?” he tried again, this time softer. He even asked the manor’s enchanted staff a pair of breezy wind-spirits who merely fluttered uncertainly and gestured toward the garden. Which meant only one thing.

“Oh no,” Plushfri whispered, clutching the satchel to his chest.

In the farthest corner of the orchard, where spider-lanterns swayed from ivy-covered poles and the grass hummed with evening crickets, a hole gaped in the bare ground. Barely a whisper of its creator remained save for a few scattered silk threads.

Plushfri approached it slowly, then crouched beside it, brushing his fingers along the rim of dug soil, then took a breath and descended. The deeper the hole, the deeper the shame. That was Maestro’s logic. Plushfri hated it with a passion.

The path sloped steeply downward. Cold seeped in. The lower Plushfri went, the less he could see until he fumbled across one of the small, moonspiders Maestro often spoke to at night when the shame crept in.

“Tiny darling,” he cooed, scooping it up. “Would you be so kind as to light the way for a concerned lover?”

The spider blinked all eight eyes and obligingly glowed with soft bioluminescent gold. With the faintest hum of magic, the spider clambered to his shoulder and nestled into his collarbone like a lamp. Forward Plushfri went deeper, darker, farther than he thought Maestro ever dared dig.

At the very bottom, half-covered in loose silk and regret, lay Maestro. A curled mass of wooden limbs, six arms folded in on himself like a flower trying not to bloom. His head was bowed, back to the wall, and as Plushfri stepped closer, he realized...His eyes were gone.

Two eyeballs sat carefully unscrewed, placed beside him like precious stones too bright to bear. His mouth was sealed shut. Glued. The cheap kind along the seams of his wooden lips.

“Oh, darling,” Plushfri sighed.

He said nothing else, only dropped gently to his knees beside him, laying flat on the cold earth, stretching out until his chest was pressed softly to Maestro’s back. He curled around him, resting his chin in Maestro’s hair. One hand gently threaded through the dark strands of coarse black hair, smoothing them.

For a long time, there was only breath. Only heartbeats one artificial, one divine. Finally, Plushfri reached up and cupped Maestro’s cheek with infinite care.

“Dearheart,” he said softly. “ You have removed your eyes, so that you might not see me, and glued your mouth, so you may not speak to me.”

He chuckled lightly, brushing a kiss to Maestro’s brow. “My sweet fool. Punishing yourself, or reaching a heaven will not make you worthy.” His voice dropped to a murmur as he pressed their foreheads together. “You are already enough.” Then, quicker: “Also, you used the cheap glue. The kind that dissolves in water.”

Plushfri pressed kiss to Maestro's mouth.

“H-hey,” he managed.

Plushfri grinned. “Hello, you. Back from the dead, ready to return to the land of the living? Out of this hole you keep dragging yourself into?”

Maestro groaned. “Ugh… Twenty-seven failed attempts today.”

Plushfri placed a hand over his heart in exaggerated horror. “Maestro! That is a noble number! Even I rarely accomplish a single thing in a day. Nay on some days, I accomplish negative things!”

Maestro gave a strangled laugh, one hand slowly, shakily reaching to touch Plushfri’s sleeve. “I just… I want to reach Heaven so badly. I really do.”

“With your determination, my love,” Plushfri whispered, “you surely will, but perhaps… perhaps you should consider digging upward next time, instead of down.”

Maestro stared at him, wide-eyed. “Plushfri ”

“I am serious,” Plushfri said cheerfully, already sitting up and brushing dirt from his cloak. “Come now. let us go home.”

Maestro blinked. Then, slowly, with all six arms, he let Plushfri pull him up into the light. As they climbed, Maestro murmured, “I know the spiders are trying their best with the webbing, but if it is going to lift me into Heaven… it needs to be something divine. Something more than mortal silk. I think... I think I will try celestial resin next. Maybe a touch of sacred magnetation ”

“Tell me everything,” Plushfri purred, “over snacks I absolutely paid for and in no way stole from a corrupt king who definitely deserved it.”

Maestro laughed, and the sound echoed all the way up the hole. By the time they reached the edge, the sun had set. The house lights glowed in welcome. The door stood open like a waiting embrace, and Maestro, pulled gently into it by the man who believed in him even at the bottom of the earth, finally believed maybe just a little that he deserved to be seen again.

The idea hit Maestro mid-sentence, his voice rising with passion and momentum. "--and if I can harness the wind properly through the kinetic rotational feedback of the spider silk, and the lift is proportional to my weight, I may, may, just be able to fly high enough to touch the threshold! Even just a fingertip against it, imagine, Plushfri! What living puppet has touched Heaven?"

He was pacing the room like an obsessed professor, arms gesturing in wide, elegant arcs, his voice cracking with genuine excitement. Plushfri, draped lazily on a velvety chaise with his lute across his lap, raised a single brow.

“Darling,” Plushfri purred, “I do not mean to be unsupportive, truly, I admire your passion, but… heavens are just places. Their existence alone cannot improve you.”

Maestro stopped dead in his tracks, looking horrified. “Just places?”

Plushfri gave a soft sigh, plucking a few idle notes from his lute. “A place is only as good as the people inside it. There are many heavens, my sweet. Some with saints, some with sinners, some even with demons! I know!” He flashed a knowing smirk. “Do you think any heaven will make you feel worthy?”

“I, yes!” Maestro said earnestly. “Because I will have earned it!”

Plushfri rolled onto his side, slumping against one of Maestro’s lower arms, his pastel curls brushing against the polished wood. “You always want to be better than everyone else,” he muttered, more tender than accusing.

Maestro flinched slightly. “that is not true.” Maestro’s body shifted. With careful grace, he knelt beside the bed, resting one of his lower hands palm-up on the mattress.

He demonstrates:  “I am here,” he said, gesturing to the hand near the bed.

Then, lifting his highest hand above his head, he added solemnly, “Everyone else is here.”

Plushfri’s expression softened. His eyes searched Maestro’s. Slowly, Plushfri sat up and tilted his head.

“And where am I, then?” he asked gently.

Without hesitation, Maestro smiled, small, sad, but genuine. He shook the hand held highest. “You are up here.”

Plushfri blinked once. Then, he reached down, took the low hand that Maestro had placed on the bed, and pressed it to his chest.

“No,” Plushfri whispered, voice warm and tender. “I am right in front of you.”

Plushfri took the high hand, still hovering in the air, and brought it down reverently to his cheek. He nuzzled into the coolness of the wooden palm. Then he leaned in and kissed him slowly as though every second was a vow. Maestro’s breath caught.

The silence between them was sacred. Then, Maestro's arms, all six of them, folded around Plushfri. 

“I am in Heaven when I am with you,” Plushfri murmured into his lips. Maestro held him tighter.

The loss of Maestro shattered something fundamental in Plushfri's carefully constructed psyche. Unable to bear the weight of guilt and grief, he threw himself into increasingly reckless distractions. The measured domesticity of his previous life gave way to a desperate pursuit of anything that might numb the constant ache of loss.

During this dark period, Plushfri entered into a punishing relationship with Gameon, a druid. The relationship was characterized by manipulation, power games, and a mutual destructiveness that left both participants damaged.

In his desperation, he resigned himself to the likely outcome that Maestro by now had escaped Barul the only way that was known: reincarnation. Maestro would not remember himself, but perhaps he could find him again in his reincarnation. Here would be Plushfri's second chance. 

And so, despite being friends to countless psychopomps who would have forbidden such a thing, he sought to go fishing for souls. In a boat above space above Reality, Plushfri tore from himself a geese feather to use as bait. Surely, the trauma Maestro had endured while falling would assist him to recognize such a symbol.

Here, the soul that was fished was named Xavier, who Plushfri, eager to transfer his endless love to this soul, affectionaly nicknamed Xalavier. And yes, a part of Plushfri, the part he was desperate to silence, knew that this random soul couldn't poissibly be Maestro. What were the odds? Well, they would have had to been good. Xavier, this dead man, was holding a scythe. A wooden scythe! And who was made of wood? Maestro! So what if Xavier didn't know why he died with an object? Plushfri's heart told him that his beloved Maestro was trying to send him a clue beyond the grave.

Plushfri told Xavier very little about the true nature of Andara and himself, going by Aldren. He hoped that Xavier would display intuitive knowledge and tendencies reminescent of Maestro to conclude they shared a soul.  

Despite Xavier insisting that Plushfri help him find a way home, Plushfri made excuse after excuse and gave Xavier distraction after distraction to keep his precious “Maestro” near.

Plushfri sat comfortably at the prow of his riverboat, plucking at the strings of his lyre as the vessel drifted along a river made of starry cosmos. It was a breathtaking sight, the current flowed lazily, streaks of silver and blue weaving through the great abyss, the constellations shimmering like fireflies caught in slow motion. The planets, enormous and serene, rested in the distance, a cosmic audience to his music. 

He lined a fishing rod with silk of moonspiders, and threw it out into the abyss. Then he sighed, stretching luxuriously.

The rod deepened as a hand gripped it.. The boat rocked.

Plushfri startled as a metallic clang struck the wooden deck. Something had hooked onto the side of the boat, a curved, gleaming scythe, its dark handle glistening with celestial coldness.

Then, with great effort, a man hauled himself onto the deck, gasping as if he had been drowning in the void. His dark, sweat-dampened hair clung to his forehead, and his broad frame shuddered with each ragged breath. The scythe clattered against the floorboards as he finally collapsed onto the deck.

Plushfri blinked, intrigued.

"Oh, I should have known," he purred, setting his lyre aside. He swept to his feet and sauntered toward the stranger, arms outstretched in mock welcome. "Souls are simply throwing themselves at me now. Truly, I am irresistible."

The stranger looked up, utterly disoriented.

"What?"

"What indeed." Plushfri laughed, dropping gracefully onto the deck beside him. "I was just about to take a little swim all the way down to Reality to fetch myself some lively company, but it seems you have saved me the trouble. Tell me, dearheart, did you leap from life itself just to bask in my radiance once more?"

The man ignored him, blinking rapidly as he tried to gather himself.

"’Leap from life’? Are you saying that...I'm dead? Are you god?," the stranger muttered, his breath still uneven.

"Not the one you are thinking of," Plushfri corrected, smug. "I am Plushfri Firmin. I am an esteemed poet, a master seduction- "

The stranger barely paid him any mind. He had turned away, staring over the side of the boat into the vast river of stars. The celestial water shimmered, reflecting the glow of the galaxies beyond, but as he leaned closer, he saw something else. They weren’t just stars. They were souls drifting in the twilight. Without thinking, ge plunged his head into the river.

For one horrible moment, he saw everything. The swirling mass of spirits, their faint, ghostly outlines. The Earth, small and fragile in the distance. The void of it all. Then he began to suffocate.

The man’s eyes widened as suffocation wrapped around his lungs like invisible chains. Plushfri yanked the man back onto the boat with unexplained strength. Plushfri, unbothered, wiped away cosmic dust from the man’s work coat.

"I hope you are not trying to kill yourself... possibly for the second time."

The stranger turned, still heaving, still struggling to process any of this.

"I, no!"

"Pity," Plushfri sighed, then picked up his lyre as he sang, "I was about to offer you some tips.”

“What?”

Plushfri continued singing: “The first tip is do not do it. You are loved, and you are worthy, If you do not think that people care about you, then I do." He then smiled like a cat.

The man staggered to his feet. "This is, this has to be some mistake.  I’m a caretaker at an orphanage, Xavier” He became slightly defensive. “I love my life. I would never let a child leave the orphanage if I thought they would live an unhappy life. I, I help children. I live a good, honest life. I work hard.  I'm actually very happy. And...If I'm dead, why aren't I-I”

Plushfri: Do not ask me; ask a psycopomp. Psychopomps are any being that guides souls, such as the Grim Reapers, Alebrije, or, as people claim, angels. I am sure you believe such things.

Now, it is not my job to guide anyone to an afterlife, although I excel at it, but, if I have to make up an answer, I wager that your scythe weighed down your floating soul down from entering Heaven. Tell me, how many people did you murder? 

Xavier: I didn't murder anyone! *astonished* I also worked part time harvesting grain to support the orphanage. If I'm not dead or in Heaven, then I have to get back home. Is this Hell? 

Plushfri: *happily* You're in Andara, a neutral afterlife, and I just so happen to be its most powerful resident. 

Xavier let out a short, incredulous laugh.

"Pfft, right. If you’re so powerful, can I have a million dollars?"

Before Xavier could even finish, he was pelted by a quick hand of gold coins, some of which fell overboard into the abyss.

“I truly hope you enjoy, Motherf–”

"Oh my god!" he whispered, staring. "I can save the orphanage with this!" He clutched the gold to his chest. 

Plushfri sighed, disinterested. "Has there just never been a well funded orphanage since the 16th century? "

But Xavier wasn’t listening. He was still staring out into space, still gripping his scythe, still desperate.

Plushfri: *rolls eyes and sighs as he looks over the boat* *talking to himself , a but dissapointed by Xavier's lack of interest in him* Maybe, I will go to Reality with you. Now, where is Los Angeles? 

Xavier: Forget that, look for Shadecity, Minnowa!

Plushfri hummed in thought. "Oh, I went to a Renaissance fair on that same continent! ‘Twas nothing like the real thing."

"Nope, people marry their siblings in Minnowa too." Xavier teased.

"I mean," Plushfri scowled, "that I was born in 1569, five years after Shakespeare in the days of kings and peasants. You asked about hell earlier; I singlehandedly funded the Brimstone Abolition Act in my early twenties, while intoxicated, mind you--

But Xavier wasn’t paying attention. Plushfri sighed, watching the way Xavier still stared into the distance, still reaching for something beyond his grasp.

"You haven’t even seen the great things about Andara, but if you are so enthralled with Reality, I could take you anywhere," he said, almost disappointed.

Xavier tore his gaze away from the horizon.

"Plushie," he said, absolutely butchering Plushfri’s name. "Sir. I’m sure you’re a very good man, but I have to go back to where I’m needed."

Plushfri exhaled, pretending to be amused.

"Parting is such sweet sorrow," he mused, resting his chin on his hand. "Or at least it would be, if I cared about seeing the same person twice. Goodbye and goodbye again."

----------

Xavier clenched his jaw, adjusted his grip on the scythe, and took one last glance at the absurdly smug man lounging at the prow of the riverboat. Then, with a determined breath, he leapt.

The moment he left the boat, the cold was immediate. The weight of the gold in his arms should have dragged him down, but there was no gravity here, only endless, glimmering void. He paddled through it, his arms moving as though he were swimming through dark water. Every stroke sent him drifting forward, toward Earth, toward home.

He forced himself to hold his breath longer, swimming further into the abyss. The darkness around him deepened, stretching endlessly.

Xavier’s instincts screamed at him to turn back, but it was too late.

Two massive shapes slithered from the light. Eels. Long, terrible, slick-bodied creatures covered in pulsing veins of electricity.

Xavier barely had time to react before the first one struck.

A bolt of searing pain tore through him, jolting his limbs and sending his mind into panic. His muscles locked, his grip on the scythe faltered, and worst of all, his mouth opened.

The moment it did, space filled his lungs. There was no air, no breath, just suffocation, just the cold weight of the void crashing into his lungs, pressing against his ribs. He gasped for something, anything, but there was nothing to breathe.

Instinct took over. Xavier gritted his teeth, gripped his scythe, and swung.

The blade sliced through the darkness, through the eels, through space itself. A jagged tear split open before him, like fabric ripped from the seams. Xavier clawed at the edges of it, dragging himself through the impossible rift.

It caught something thin and perfect, and soon he was hoisted higher and higher. Then he collapsed, gasping, back onto the riverboat’s wooden deck.

He lay there for several moments, sucking in breath after breath, the boat’s familiar weight beneath him the only thing anchoring him to reality. Then, through the ringing in his ears, a voice.

"WHAT WERE THOSE? WHAT THE HELL WAS THAT?!"

Xavier scrambled up, wide-eyed and wild, turning to Plushfri, who, insufferably, looked more confused than concerned.

"Which hell?" Plushfri asked, genuinely puzzled.

"THERE ARE MULTIPLE?!" Xavier shouted, still panting. He ran a hand through his hair, still feeling the phantom shocks lingering in his body. 

Plushfri gave him a slow, pitying look before sighing dramatically. Would you like a margarita?

Xavier: No thank you, I read that if you eat or drink in the afterlife you have to stay there. 

Plushfri: No, you still need to eat just because you're dead doesn't mean that you can't feel hunger pains, or regular pain. You are more than capable of being brought to another afterlife if you die in this one. 

Xavier: Thank you but I don't drink alcohol, and who on Earth even drinks during this time of day?!

Plushfri: I…simply enjoy the taste, and since you do not, what do you drink? 

Xavier: ...water.

Plushfri: *blinks innocently* 

Xavier: Is there, no water here, is that why your boat is on space. 

Plushfri: Water...water...the liquid that falls from the sky! 

Xavier: And that forms up 60% of our bodies, yeah! 

Plushfri: Okay then, before my final judgement, what kind of literature dost thou enjoy? 

Xavier: Mostly, my time is spent reading manuals on how to fix things. I'm the only male caretaker, so all of the manual labor and responsibility to be a mature father figure is all on me. *proudly* 

Plushfri: I see, so it is just you and you little girlfriends. *teasing, friendly* 

Xavier: Um, no, not at all. 

Plushfri: *friendly teasing* So what you are saying is that there are just no women for you, that is truly tragic. *said hopefully* 

Xaveir: *smiling, catching on* Yeah, and there are no men either! 

Plsuhfri: You say that now, but if you allow me to, I can truly show you adventure and luxury beyond your wildest dreams. So, you are not married? 

Xavier: Why do I feel like it wouldn't stop you from flirting with me even if I was. I'm married to my fieldwork. 

Plushfri: Then, I will not tell your scythe if you won't. *as he says this, Plushfri trails his finegr down the sharp edge of Xavier's scythe. It bleeds and Plsuhfri twirls his wrist, the blood turns into a golden feather. Plushfri hands it to Xavier. When Plsuhfri isn't looking, Xavier tosses the daisy into the space ocean. The electric eels rush up to snap it into their jaws almost catching Xavier's fingers.Xavier, flinches back. 

Plushfri: *steering the boat onto land* We are here! *offering him his hand*  You'll do great for tonight. 

Xavier: *holding his hand away* I am NOT that desperate to get back home *thinking that Plushfri was implying sex* 

Plushfri: *correcting him* you will do great *emphasis* as my dinner guest. I am not that desperate either. Can you not see that I'm filled with natural charm and charisma? 

Xavier: Hmm, no. *teasing* 

Plushfri: Alright, stay there. 

Xavier: No, help me up! *laughing* 

Plushfri: *laughing as he helps him off the boat* 

—

The market stretched before them, a vibrant sprawl of merchants and stalls overflowing with exotic wares, jewel-toned fabrics shimmering like water, strange fruits glistening with an almost supernatural sheen, and spices that filled the air with scents Xavier had never encountered before. It was fantasy in the rawest sense, a place so unlike anything he had ever known that it almost felt unreal.

"Amazing, isn't it?" Plushfri's voice curled like silk. "There's nothing like this in Reality unless you go to Florida in the U.S.A." He giggled, his pastel curls bouncing with the movement. "Even I found it overwhelming!"

Xavier barely heard him. His eyes were locked on a stand selling books bound in what looked like living, breathing leather. He stared, transfixed, as one cover sighed when the shopkeeper ran a finger down its spine.

"Oh, hey," Plushfri said, dragging Xavier’s attention back to him. "What spices do you like on you best?"

Xavier frowned. "Plushfri, earlier, you talked about having me as a dinner guest, and now you're asking about what spices would go on me." His frown deepened. "Are you… planning to eat me?"

Plushfri grinned, slow and devilish. "Dearheart, I would ravish you if you let me."

Xavier groaned. "Why is everything a dirty joke with you?"

"Who said I was joking?" Plushfri hummed, eyeing the spice rack with playful contemplation.

Xavier exhaled sharply, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "Look, try to see things from my perspective. I don't know where I am, or who you really are. Can you see why I need to get home soon, if I can? How do I know that you aren’t secretly a demon?"

Plushfri tilted his head, considering this. Then, without a word, he reached for a handful of deep crimson spice and tossed it into his mouth.

Immediately, his pupils narrowed into slits. His front teeth elongated into razor-sharp fangs, gleaming white and perfectly curved. His irises flickered to a piercing, unnatural gold. And then, just as quickly, he transformed back. 

Xavier took a step back. 

"It is rare for one in Andara to transform of their own free will," Plushfri replied with a light, almost musical laugh. He tapped one of his newly-formed fangs with a lazy finger. "Sharp, aren’t they?" His voice was honeyed, inviting. "Would you like to feel how sharp? With your tongue, preferably."

Xavier gave him a flat look. "Yeah, how about I do some dental work with my scythe?"

Plushfri hissed in response, baring his fangs theatrically. "That was vampire seasoning. You’d do better to stab me with the wooden rod."

Xavier ignored him, turning to the spice vendor. "Pardon me, do any of these help with, say, swimming through space? Holding my breath underwater? Maybe immunity to electricity or eels or?"

The shopkeeper sighed. "Look, man, I just work here."

"We will purchase three one of each!" Plushfri let out an excited noise and slammed a pouch of coins onto the counter. 

The shopkeeper eyed the coins. "Oh look, it's more money than I make in a year."

Plushfri leaned forward, resting his chin on his hand with an amused smirk. "Steal it from your boss. Hustle the god of luck by losing to him a few times on purpose. Get him so drunk on wine and praise that he wagers his godhood. Use that godhood to win against him, play him for everything he’s got, leave him mortal to die in a barfight. Then wash, rinse, and repeat until you own partial stake in an afterlife."

Xavier gasped. "Plushfri, that’s terrible advice!"

The shopkeeper shrugged, pocketing the coins. "No, you know what? I deserve to be paid a living wage, no a great wage." They promptly closed up shop and walked off.

Xavier turned to Plushfri, exasperated. "Great. Now who's gonna sell the spices to you?"

Plushfri's lips curled into a wicked grin, he shoved a handful of random spice jars into his satchel.

"No!" Xavier laughed as he shoved Plushfri aside, trying to put the stolen spices back, ut amidst their chaos, neither of them saw the woman.

Cloaked in fabric the color of wheat, she slipped through the market, her hands moving with quiet precision. In the commotion of grasping hands and clashing bodies, she swept past Xavier and swiped his scythe.

Xavier whirled around quickly. "Hey, that's mine!" He bolted after her, but he fell the moment his foot caught on uneven stone.

"No, no, damn it! I need that for work!"

Plushfri merely watched, his face unreadable. Then, with the smallest, most careless gesture, he touched the ground. Andara answered.

The sky turned black, and Thunder cracked overhead. The market erupted into chaos as people screamed and ran for cover. Xavier tried to move, but Plushfri caught his wrist, holding him in place.

Electricity lashed through the air, striking at citizens random. Some people changed, while others were untouched, but when the dust settled, the market was empty.

Xavier’s breath came in short, panicked gasps as he saw his scythe lying in the center of it all. Next to it was a wheat-colored robe crumpled beside it.

A cat darted out from beneath the fabric, hissing furiously before sprinting into the shadows.

Xavier couldn’t move.

Plushfri bent down, retrieving the scythe, and dusted it off before offering it back to him. "...When I helped write the Brimstone Abolition Act, righteous souls like yourself despised the idea that there was no longer a place to reward the virtuous." His voice was smooth, practiced. "Nor to punish the wicked."

Xavier flinched when Plushfri tried to press the rod into his hands.

"No, I don’t want to die!"

"I would never hurt you." Plushfri’s voice was gentle, almost condescending. "Besides I believe the pen is mightier than the sword, I mean, scythe."

Xavier swallowed. "No, I mean... is there still electricity in it?"

Plushfri smiled. "No."

"Are you positive?"

"I am positive that your scythe is not positively charged. The wooden handle does not conduct electricity. I am familiar with modern day science, Xavier."

Xavier shuddered. "Plushfri I think I...I died from being electrocuted."

Plushfri paused.

"I was using my scythe to dig holes for wheat, and... I think I hit a powerline, or maybe a powerline fell on me. I don’t know…I want to go home. Please help me."

Plushfri exhaled, as if this was an inconvenience. "Alright. We’ll see what we can do in the morning. For now, you will lodge at my house."

They were stepping onto the gondala.

Xavier hesitated, then, "Thank you."

Plushfri smirked. "Oh, you should knwo that it is possible for the metal blade to conduct electricity."

Xavier glared. "I know."

Plushfri grinned. "Then touch it."

"No."

"But you shall."

"I shan’t."

"You shall!"

Xavier tackled Plushfri to the gondola’s floor, pinning him by the wrists. Plushfri gasped, looking up at the artificial stars, glowing nocturnal birds flitting across the painted sky.

Xavier looked celestial above him.

Plushfri’s lips parted.

"Xavier..."

----

Gondala Worker: Hey, watch it, you're gonna crack the boat!

Xavier: *quickly pulling Plushfri up, * Sorry, we'll be still!

Plushfri: *rubbing his shoulders, smiling* I’m starting to think thou hast lied to me about working in an orphanage and in the fields. Surely you have some third job that makes great use of your muscles.

Xavier: "No, taking care of kids all day and night, you barely get a second of rest.” Xavier replied absently.

Plushfri: " Do you really expect me to believe that rocking a babe to sleep is some form of great exercise? Not that I would know." 

Xavier said. No, I don't know how to fight with the scythe-

"Oh, do not play coy, dearheart." Plushfri wagged a finger at him. "I do not mean thy weapon. I mean thy muscles."

Xavier stared. "Would you believe me if I told you I don’t actually know how to fight?"

Plushfri smirked. "I would believe thee," he purred, "if thou told me that thou wert a lover, not a fighter."

He leaned in.

Pushfri: Tell me, dear Xavier, when thou didst perish, didst thou leave anyone…" his voice slowed, "special behind?"

Xavier snorted. "No, I’m aromantic."

Plushfri tilted his head. "Thou art a romantic? So am I. Kiss me."

Xavier laughed.

"No, no, not ‘a romantic,’ as in a person who is romantic. Aromantic as in The ‘a’ means ‘not.’"Like in words like atypical, or asymptomatic. 

Plushfri blinked.

"So… thou art… not a romantic person?" He smirked, trailing a finger along Xavier’s arm. "Fear not, dear heart, I can be romantic enough for the both of us."

Xavier exhaled, shaking his head. "No, Plushfri, I mean that I do not feel romantic attraction. To anyone."

Plushfri froze.

"Like… with me?"

"With anyone."

"But…" Plushfri licked his lips, "but thou canst fall in love, surely, "

"Just as certain as you are that you can fall in love. I am just as certain that I cannot."

Silence.

Plushfri chuckled nervously.

"That…" his voice faltered, "sounds like a curse. What caused it? Can it be fixed?"

Xavier sighed.

"I used to think that exact thing."

Plushfri studied him, watching the way Xavier’s face softened, not with pain, but with acceptance.

"I was born this way," Xavier admitted. "I used to think I was missing out. And maybe I am. But if I’m missing out on a lot of good things… I’m probably missing out on a lot of bad things, too."

Plushfri scoffed. "Pfft. What could possibly be bad about love?"

Xavier raised a brow. "Aren’t you a poet? Hell, aren’t you, you?"

Plushfri hesitated. "I am asking thee, Mr. ‘I-Do-Not-Know-How-To-Love.’ How about we date, and I shall show thee what it means to love someone?"

"Plushfri, you don’t get it." Xavier wasn’t angry, but he was firm."I can feel love, just not romance. I feel brotherly love, sisterly love, love for the children at the orphanage, platonic love for you."

Plushfri’s expression flickered.

"‘Platonic… love.’" He rolled the words around in his mouth, eyes narrowing slightly. "Xavier, forgive me, but those words are an oxymoron. Love and platonic are opposites."

"They’re not," Xavier said softly. "I can care about someone without wanting to be in a relationship with them. I was never in romantic love with my childhood cat. "

Plushfri’s chest tightened.

"So… thou hast never been in love? And thou knowest thou never wilt be? And thou wilt not try to fix thyself or change thyself, and thou art… fine with that?"

"Absolutely." Xavier smiled, gently. "I don’t need to be ‘fixed.’ And I’ve accepted myself."

Something in Plushfri shattered.

His lips parted, but nothing came out.

"Do you…" Xavier hesitated, voice quieter, "accept me, too?"

Plushfri’s throat tightened. He could feel panic rising, confusion, heartbreak. The gondola cracked. Water surged, and they fell.

A sea monster cage caught them and took them to its underwater cavern.

-----

The stew pot bubbled ominously. A massive sea monster with gnarled tentacles and slimy, glistening scales, stirred the pot with a tree trunk-sized ladle, humming a deep, guttural tune as it prepared to cook Plushfri and Xavier alive.

Xavier, rightfully panicking, gritted his teeth as he threw his weight against the bars of their bone-wrought cage, trying desperately to bend them.

Meanwhile,  Plushfri sat, legs elegantly crossed, twirling a human skull in his hands.

"Alas, " he murmured, voice drenched in theatrical despair, "to my love affair with Xavier, I knew thee…not."

Then, with a huff, he tossed the skull aside, watching it clatter pathetically against the wooden planks of the dock.

Xavier stared at him. "You could help me, you know," he panted, trying again to wrench the cage open.

"The man of my dreams just broke my heart," he lamented. "Let me sulk."

Xavier groaned, still fighting for their survival. "You’ve known me for a 22 hours; you can sulk after we escape! Look, I know you’re disappointed, "

"Not disappointed," Plushfri corrected, flipping his curls. "I would never blame thee for how thou art born, but I must admit, " He placed a delicate hand over his chest. "’Tis a huge blow to my ego… and my heart… and my soul. Wait, do I still have a soul?"

"Plushfri!" Xavier snapped.

Plushfri sighed heavily, but at least he stood up.

"Look, we both know you’re just gonna fall in love with someone else," Xavier continued, trying to encourage him. "I can tell that you’re talented, you’re handsome, you’re successful, you’re funny, you’re clever, and I can’t think of anyone else who’s tried to show me a good time."

Plushfri perked up. "Ah…" he mused, tapping his chin, "perhaps thou art correct!" Finally, finally, he started helping, but then, Xavier continued.

"Besides," Xavier added cheerfully, "even if I could feel romantic attraction, and even though I do want to spend my life with someone someday, I still wouldn’t pick you because I cna also tell that you’re selfish, irresponsible, cowardly, immoral, immature, and narcissistic. You never had a chance!"

Plushfri collapsed. Like a dying swan, he slumped into a dramatic heap, utterly useless once more.

"…WHAT?!"

Xavier gritted his teeth, staring heavenward in silent prayer for patience. "Oh, come on!"

With effort, he tried to haul Plushfri back up. "Plushfri, please. I don’t know if I’m dead or alive, but I don’t want to die."

Plushfri, nonchalant, simply flicked his fingers. Andaran power surged. The sea monster’s eyes glazed over. It froze, ladle mid-stir, and then, gently, with great care, it plucked them from the cage and set them safely back on land. Xavier collapsed onto the dock, panting.

"Plushfri, " he gasped, eyes wide with awe. "How did you, never mind! I’m just happy to be alive! Or whatever I am right now!"

Plushfri sighed deeply, brushing imaginary dust off his doublet. "I shall order us a carriage home," he murmured.

And then, Xavier hugged him tight. "You’re my hero," Xavier murmured, grateful.

Plushfri blinked. "That I am," he muttered, voice… oddly soft.

Then, "Despite thy traits, thou couldst still offer me some show of gratitude…" he mused, "if thou felt like it. Perhaps even a kiss, once in a while? Just to try it out?"

Xavier pulled back slightly, meeting his gaze. "I won’t ask you to change," he said. "As long as you don’t ask me to change."

Plushfri studied him. "Which means?"

"It means you can still flirt with me," Xavier said, smirking. "Even though you know you’ll never get anywhere."

Plushfri gasped, hand to chest. "Ha-ha! Yes!"

Xavier chuckled, shaking his head. "Now, If thou art asexual, am I… all sexual?" Plushfri mused.

Xavier smiled. "Only you can define that for yourself."

Plushfri gasped again. "I never knew I also had a sexuality type!" He clutched his chest. "I thought I was just… normal!"

“I’m pretty sure there’s nothing normal about you."

The sunset painted the sky in shades of gold and crimson as their carriage arrived to take them home.

 - - - - 

Plushfri's house was extravagant, but quiet.

Xavier leaned against the doorway, arms crossed. He studied Plushfri, sprawled across his lavish chaise, the usual brightness in his expression dimmed.

"Are you finally tired out?" Xavier asked. "You haven't said anything since we got home."

Plushfri blinked slowly, like a man trying to remember how time worked.

"Oh? Yes, I just…" He sat up, rubbing his temple. "I need to write something. I'll be back in an hour."

An hour is what he said, nut for three days and counting Plushfri’s door remained shut. Maids entered and exited like clockwork, bringing him food, tidying up, whispering excitedly about his work.

Xavier, however, couldn’t even get in. When he knocked, Plushfri gave one-word answers, eloquent but distant.

When he pushed past the maids, they gently ushered him away, murmuring, "The Author is in his process. ‘Best to leave him be, sir."

And then, on the fourth day, Plushfri emerged from his room, eyes ringed with exhaustion, but in his hands, he held a freshly stapled draft.

Xavier trailed behind him, watching as Plushfri stumbled to the mailbox, stuffed the package into the mailing slot, and then promptly collapsed against the road to and fell asleep.

Xavier stared, and looked around. Where were the damn maids now?! D-did Plushfri even have a family? There are other houses on what he described as his estate.

Xavier sighed, crouched down, and, with a grunt of effort, hoisted Plushfri over his back.

For three days, Plushfri slept. Was the man dead? No. Xavier checked.

He was still breathing, and, oh. Sometimes, his fingers would search the bed for a partner. He would frown when he found none. A pillow, seized and held in his arms often sufficed.

Xavier tried to hold his hand, just once, but that was a big mistake. Plushfri, even in his sleep, was shockingly strong, and dragged Xavier into bed with him. It took all of Xavier’s willpower to redirect Plushfri’s free hand toward himself, just so Xavier could escape.

One morning, a maid placed a freshly bound book on the table outside the room. Xavier grabbed it, skimmed the cover, and froze.

"Plushfri." He turned. Plushfri was awake, staring wistfully out the window, at nothing in particular.

"The book you ordered is here. It says it’s from…you?"

Plushfri blinked. "Ah, yes. I write books." Xavier stared.

"Wait, " He sat on the edge of the bed. "Is that what you were hounding yourself in your room for?"

Plushfri rubbed his face tiredly. "Yes."

"Is it… part of your process?"

"Sometimes."

Xavier frowned. "But, there are so many stages to writing a book, you wrote this whole thing in a week, and the majority of that was just sleeping. Did you even spellcheck? Or talk to a publisher?"

Plushfri yawned, already disinterested in the conversation.

"’Tis in Renaissance English," he mumbled, "so already the words are…something, something. Then a fancy machine edits punctuation. I sent the book to the publisher, and then they turned it into a book, and, " *another yawn* ", it will be on shelves soon. I always get sent a copy."

Xavier opened the book in disbelief, and then froze. There was money inside.

"They paid you in advance," Xavier muttered.

Plushfri mumbled into his pillow. "I do not even remember what the book is about…"

Xavier frowned, watching him carefully. "Plushfri, "

Plushfri collapsed backward, stretching out on the mattress. Then, without even looking, he patted the empty space beside him, as if inviting Xavier to join him. They both knew he wouldn’t.

Xavier sighed. "Just… get some rest. Again."

As Plushfri sank back into sleep, across Reality, the book, Lemongrass, became an instant hit.

The townspeople of Andara grumbled, already complaining that the Firmin family had yet another yacht. Not that they ever left their bubble to sail anywhere. 

They just liked to collect them.

- - - - - - 

Plushfri lay awake, eyes half-lidded, the covers twisted loosely around him. The house was filled with light, birds outside singing, maids moving about, the world continuing on, and yet, Plushfri remained in bed, as if untouched by time.

Xavier, standing by the bed, sighed, sorting through a pile of mail.

"Look," he said, shifting through envelopes, "you got more mail. It says they’ve scheduled a book signing for you."

No response.

Xavier glanced at another package. "And look, " He pulled out a small pouch, the fabric heavy with gold.

Still, no reaction. Plushfri finally blinked, slow and unmoved.

"Hooray," he murmured flatly, "I'm going to be rich." his head fell on his pillow unenthusiastically.

Xavier frowned.

Plushfri idly twirled a gold ring from the bag between his fingers, utterly indifferent.

"Oh, yes," he said without enthusiasm, "I forgot."

"Ms.Ann?"

One of the older maids stepped in, bowing slightly.

"Yes, Gambler?"

Plushfri turned his head to Xavier, smirking slightly, though the expression lacked its usual energy. he murmured. "You can tell she is one of the old maids because she calls me Gambler, not Author." although I would rather they all call me Poet."

Then, turning back to the maid, 

"Send these."

He handed her a ring and a necklace.

"The ring to my father, and the necklace to my mother."

Xavier raised a brow. "Plushfri, say please."

Plushfri rolled his eyes.

"Please."

The maid inclined her head.

"Gambler, the lord and lady of the house will complain about the size of the trinkets, but I will do as you say."

Plushfri sighed sharply, rubbing his temple.

"Then send them all the coins from my payment."

The maid hesitated. "Gambler, the lord and lady of the house will complain about how little the amount, but I will"

Plushfri groaned in annoyance, dragging a pillow over his face. Xavier, arms crossed, corrected him firmly.

"Ma’am, he doesn’t mean to groan at you, he’s upset with his parents. It’s not your fault. You’re doing a wonderful job as a… maid."

The maid nodded, waiting patiently.

"Gambler, what would you like me to send?"

Plushfri groaned louder, pressing the pillow harder against his face. "Ugh, I do not care!"

Xavier’s eyes narrowed. "Plushfri, stop acting like a moody teenager."

He turned back to the maid. "Please, miss, tell them that Plushfri is sick and will attend to them when he feels better."

The maid nodded again. "Gambler, the lord and lady of the house will complain about the lack of financial support, but I will leave you both be."

She turned to leave. Plushfri peeked out from under the pillow, reaching lazily, 

"Wait, I wanted an apple, "

Xavier gave him a look. "I get that you’re exhausted, but no one forced you to lock yourself in your room and write like your life depended on it."

Then, SLAP!

Xavier smacked him, hard, right on the ass.

Plushfri squeaked, his body jerking, his teeth sinking into his lip as a sharp sting bloomed across his skin.

"Ah!" he hissed. His fingers clutched the sheets, the ghost of a wince on his lips.

Then, slowly, he turned his head to Xavier, squinting suspiciously.

"Ah… so," he murmured, "that is how thou keepest the children in line at thy orphanage, yeah?"

Xavier rolled his eyes.

"I’ve never put my hands on my angels." He crossed his arms, leaning against the bedpost. "But if you want to act like a brat, I’ll treat you like one."

Plushfri blinked. Then,  A wicked smirk curled across his lips.

"If I hadn’t dulled my senses to where I can barely feel this bed…" he stretched luxuriously, resting his chin on his pillow, "I would ask thee to do that again." Mischief glowed in his eyes.

Xavier, unamused, sighed and pushed off the bed. "I’m getting us breakfast."

Plushfri rolled onto his back, throwing an arm dramatically over his forehead.

"And bring me an apple, wilt thou?"

Plushfri draped an arm dramatically over his forehead, shifting into an exaggerated display of distress.

"Not because you sent away my maid," he continued woefully, "nor because you struck me with your cruel, unrelenting hand, but because I am in great peril."

Xavier, already walking away, waved a dismissive hand. "Yeah, yeah, whatever."

,  - - - - - - - -

The scene cut to the two of them sitting in bed, sharing breakfast.

Xavier, calmly eating, flicked a glance at Plushfri, who, despite his supposed peril, looked perfectly healthy and spoiled, reclining against an excessive pile of pillows.

"What 'peril' could you possibly be in?" Xavier asked flatly, taking another bite of his apple. "You just did whatever you wanted for the past week."

Plushfri, with an air of a man misunderstood, pressed a hand to his chest.

"Oh, Xavier, you’ve never been gripped by the throes of inspiration, have you?"

Xavier lifted his apple. "I’m inspired to throw this at you."

Plushfri, unbothered, delicately examined his own apple, then scoffed.

"Bah! And you got the normal ones from the market, instead of the ones from my garden." He clicked his tongue, shaking his head in disappointment. "You are a terrible servant, Xavier."

Xavier froze mid-bite.

"Terrible, excuse me?!" he spluttered. "I watched over you almost every second of your artistic frenzy!"

Plushfri sighed wistfully, reaching out to lightly touch Xavier’s hand as if overcome with emotion.

*pretending to be sincere* "Ah, how noble and attentive is my dear servant," he mused, "to have watched me in my sleep like some obsessed stalker."

He fluttered his lashes devastatingly.

"You must be enamored with me."

Xavier, entirely unimpressed, leaned back, arms crossed. "Eat your damn food."

Plushfri: No, I want apples from my garden. *He sighed and turned toward the hallway.*

"Maid–"

Suddenly, Xavier grabbed his wrist.

"Nope."

Plushfri stilled. "What?" He frowned, tugging weakly. "What are you--"

Xavier laughed, grip firm. "You want something?" He smirked. "You gotta get it yourself."

Plushfri’s eyes widened in horror. "Nooooo."

"Come on." Xavier hauled him up, ignoring the dramatic dead weight Plushfri tried to throw against him. "It’s been a week. You need to stretch your legs."

- - - - - - - 

The garden was beautiful.

Of course, Plushfri had nothing to do with maintaining it. The maids tended the vines, pruned the hedges, and kept the apple trees flourishing. But still, the garden was his, and the splendor of it pleased him.

Xavier was appreciating it, too.

Plushfri smirked, perched high in the apple tree. Casually, he plucked a ripe apple and twirled it between his fingers, watching Xavier below.

"Come, join me," he called down.

Xavier sighed, placing his hands on the rough bark of the trunk. With one good jump, he grabbed a branch, but the moment he tried to pull himself up, 

"Ah!" A sharp wince.

Plushfri, who had been watching smugly, immediately paused. "Oh, but it is I who needed to exercise after so long, hmm?" he quipped, swinging his legs playfully.

Xavier didn’t answer right away, rolling his shoulders stiffly.

Plushfri’s smirk faded slightly. "Are you alright?" he asked.

Xavier exhaled, stretching his back with a grimace. "Yeah… it’s just back pain."

Plushfri tilted his head.

"Oh…" he mused. Then, with a glint of mischief,  "but you told me you didn’t have sex."

Xavier, immediately deadpan: "Back pain from bending over to pick up children and their toys, and also giving piggyback rides."

Plushfri, hiding his amusement, nodded solemnly. "Ah, I see."

With a dramatic flourish, he plucked another apple and held it out toward Xavier. "Here, piggy!"

Xavier narrowed his eyes. Then, with absolutely no hesitation, he shoved the apple into Plushfri’s mouth.

Plushfri, caught off guard, muffled a grumbled protest before biting into it.

"How long has it been," Plushfri thought, "since I felt this way?" His fingers tightened slightly around the apple. "I, I never want him to leave." Just as he was about to take another bite, 

Meow.

Plushfri’s breath stopped in his throat. Both he and Xavier looked down.

A cat. No. The cat. She introduced herself as Mehira the human.

"Wouldst thou like to know what ‘tis like to lay with many creatures of Andara?"

Xavier sighed, rubbing his temples. "No Aldren, I would not like to hear about your sexual escapades."*

"Thou dost remain in my presence," Plushfri grinned, "Which, of course, is an implicit invitation to continue."

Xavier barely lifted up his head, “Just don’t go into detail.”

“Should I regale you in a different language?” Plushfri smirked, switching effortlessly between German, French, Latin, and Italian. "Impressed, are we?"

Xavier huffed, arms crossed, but there was undeniable admiration in his expression. "I’ll admit it’s impressive."*

"Oh, please, admit it with feeling," Plushfri purred, leaning closer. "Say, ‘Oh, Plushfri, thou art the most remarkable linguist I have ever met, a man of unparalleled wit and charm, ’"

"Yeah, no."

“Well, it is better than modern English.”

Xavier took a slow breath.

"Aldren, dost thou not see that thou speaketh like an absolute buffoon? Thee dost never cease with the dosting and thee-ing and thy-ing, thou, dost, thou, dost, "

Plushfri’s eyes widened in horror. "That is not how it works, "

"Thou dost not even dost comprehend the thees of thyself, dost thou?" Xavier continued, smugly.

Plushfri flinched. "CEASE."

"Dost thou loathe it? Dost thou now understand the pain thou hast brought upon, "*

*"NO, NO, THAT IS NOT EVEN ENGLISH ANYMORE!" Plushfri practically clutched his head.

Xavier smirked, leaning back smugly. Plushfri scowled. He inhaled, squared his shoulders, and then, he spoke.

"Hi. I talk. Like this. My name is. Plushfri. I think. I am. A guy. With thoughts. And actions. I do things. And say things. Sometimes. I eat food. Sometimes. I don’t. I don’t like. Tomatoes. That’s. My personality."

Xavier wheeze-laughed so hard he nearly fell off his chair.

Plushfri continued, completely deadpan, making every word staccato, flat, and painfully modern. "Wow. This is so fun. My name is Xavier. I fix things. And work. And then work more. I love. Working. So much."

"Stop, " Xavier gasped, "I can’t, "

"I am. So cool. And normal. But I am. So bad. At street smarts. Oops. I got. Robbed again. Oh no. My money is. Gone. What will I do. Work more."*

"ALDREN, PLEASE, "

They both collapsed into laughter. Plushfri cleared his throat, squared his shoulders, and fixed Xavier with what he imagined was a modern and irresistibly casual gaze.

"Alright, Xavier, I shall now attempt to swoon thee with modern forms of flirting."

Xavier, already bracing himself, set his book aside and leaned back in his chair, arms crossed. "This should be good."

Plushfri smoothed back his curls, took a deep breath, and in a slow, syrupy voice, drawled, "Heyyy, babygirl~"

Xavier’s entire body jerked like he’d been electrocuted again. He slapped a hand over his mouth, eyes wide in pure horror. "Oh my god."

Plushfri smirked. "I like looking at screens." He tossed his curls dramatically and continued, "You like looking at screens. Woulds you like to look at screens together?"

Xavier clenched his fists, trembling with suppressed laughter.

Plushfri lifted an imaginary phone and pretended to tap at it with exaggerated disinterest. "Ah, forgive me, I must check my notifications. It has been…five entire seconds since last I stared blankly at a glowing rectangle."

Xavier made a strangled noise. "You are so bad at this."

Plushfri ignored him and pressed forward, voice adopting a pompous, detached tone. "Perchance I may show thee how many imaginary followers I have cultivated on social media, instead of going outside."

He leaned in, voice husky. "We can consume dull entertainment mindlessly, and then, when we inevitably succumb to the pressures of domesticity, we shall have a child whom we neglect, for we shall be too busy, "

Plushfri lifted the imaginary phone again and waved it, "Looking at screens."

Xavier completely lost it. He collapsed onto the floor, wheezing, arms clutching his stomach. "Stop, stop, I can't, "

Plushfri’s lips curled into a devilish grin. He straightened his doublet, deepened his voice, and, because he was nothing if not committed, began beatboxing.

"I wanna have your babies," he crooned, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively.

Xavier howled with laughter, rolling onto his side, pounding the floor with his fist. Plushfri, satisfied, rested his chin on his palm and watched him, utterly pleased with himself.

Xavier, red-faced, managed to wheeze out, "Aldren, never, do that again."

Plushfri smirked. "Oh, dearheart. I cannot make such a promise."

Xavier only got his joy from work, from helping others, from this infuriating, baffling need to give and give and give. Plushfri had been a servant before. Had worked, had seen work. Why did Xavier get more out of giving? Plushfri, in all his long and glorious existence, had only ever taken. It just didn’t make sense.

"Oh, what troubles you, dear Xalavier? Have you finally ran out of work? You know, you could always ‘work’ me."

Xavier spoke without missing a beat. "You know what, if you don’t stop, I’m gonna twist your pantyhose."

Plushfri pouted, snapping out of his daze. "I do not wear pantyhose. I wear stockings."

And then, Xavier BURST into laughter. Plushfri blinked, watching as the gruff, mature, focused, mature (again) Xavier laughed so hard he nearly doubled over.

"I never expected that word to come from your mouth!" Xavier choked out.

Plushfri huffed, crossing his arms, though a smirk tugged at his lips. "Oh, laugh it up, thou insufferable brute."*

"Plushfri, Plushfri, say whore."

Plushfri gasped, clutching his chest as if mortally wounded. "How crude! How vile! I am a man of refined taste, Xavier, "

"C’mon, say it."

"‘Tis not even an that old of a word! Mine own mother was insulted with it in my youth."

“Oh, I’m sorry”

“Do not be, for I was the one who addressed her as such.”

"Please say it."

"Ugh, whore."

"Okay, okay, now say…bastard."

"You are a bastard."

"Okay, okay, " Xavier smirked, clearly enjoying this too much. "Can you say… hmmm. ‘I love committing felony tax evasion.’"

Plushfri snorted. "Oh, please, Xavier, " He waved a hand dismissively. "My family actually does commit felony tax evasion."

Xavier wheezed. "WHAT?!"

Plushfri smirked. "Oh, absolutely. ‘Twas quite a scandal. My father hated the tax collectors. He used one of the godhoods I swindled to erect a forcefield around the family estate."*

"That’s, Plushfri, that’s not something you just casually admit, "

"Oh, but thou can make me say ‘whore’ and ‘bastard’ for thy own amusement?" Plushfri scoffed dramatically. "I see how it is, dear Xavier! Truly, a cruel and unjust world we live in."

Xavier couldn’t sleep. Maybe it was the unfamiliarity of Andara, or maybe it was the weight of his thoughts pressing into his skull, but regardless, he found himself wandering down the grand staircase of Plushfri’s estate, following the dim glow of the kitchen light. At the table, sitting with one knee tucked to his chest, was Plushfri, but not the Plushfri that Xavier knew.

His usual extravagant doublet and ruff were gone, replaced with a loose-fitting sleep shirt and a pair of shorts covered in tiny music notes. His pastel curls, usually so meticulously styled, were pinned up in old-fashioned curlers, and in one hand, he absentmindedly swirled a spoon in a bowl of garishly colored sugary cereal. In the other, he typed away at his computer.

Xavier froze, staring.  Plushfri looked like a somewhat exhausted 26-year-old man instead of a centuries-old entity who ruled an entire afterlife?

A rooster crowed somewhere in the distance, reminding them both that, technically, it was morning now. Plushfri glanced up lazily from his screen, arching a brow. “Having trouble sleeping, dearheart? Or…” His lips curled into a smirk. “Perhaps you were hoping to sneak into my room, spirit me away under the veil of darkness, and steal me with a forbidden kiss beneath the moonlight?”

Xavier blinked, still processing the sight before him. “…What? What are you? Who is this?” 

Plushfri sighed dramatically, setting down his spoon. “You wound me, truly. A gentleman of my stature has a life beyond Andara, you know. I’ve just returned from a party in Los Angeles.” He stretched his arms over his head, sighing contentedly. “And, before that, I was enjoying time with some friends in Dungeons & Dragons. I play as a bard, naturally.”

Xavier frowned, leaning against the doorway. “You… go to parties, and you play D&D?”

Plushfri gave him a look of mock offense. “What, you would have me sit in Andara 24/7 brooding? Oh, woe is me, a god of indulgence, cursed with everlasting life and unparalleled beauty!” He placed the back of his hand against his forehead dramatically. Then, with a sudden smirk, he tilted his head. “Honestly, Xavier, I am starting to think you believe I cease to exist the moment I am out of your sight.”

Xavier crossed his arms. “It’s just weird. Looking at you now… You just look… normal.”

Plushfri clicked his tongue and wagged a finger. “Normal? Ah, I shall pretend you meant devastatingly handsome.”

Xavier ignored him. His eyes wandered toward Plushfri’s computer, catching a flash of a playlist. “Wait, you actually listen to music? Like, real music?”

Plushfri gasped theatrically. “Of course! Did you think I only listen to Gregorian chants? I enjoy Megan Thee Stallion?”

“…I don’t listen to Megan Thee Stallion,” Xavier said flatly.

Plushfri looked scandalized. “Lady, I mean, Nicki Minaj then?”

“No.”

“Sir Kanye West? I enjoyed his sonnets before his terrible bout of madness.”

“No.”

“What about Sir David Bowie? Ah, now there’s a poet. I particularly enjoy "I Can't Give Everything Away.” His expression softened slightly, a rare glimpse of sincerity. Then, with renewed energy, he beamed. “Oh! I can play Talk Dirty by Jason Derulo on the lyre! Would you like to hear it?”

Xavier shook his head, exasperated. “This isn’t fair.”

Plushfri paused, spoon hovering over his cereal. “...What isn’t fair?”

“That you can go to Reality. That you can just walk through a portal, go to parties, play stupid games, live you life, but I, ” Xavier swallowed. “...can’t.”

Plushfri’s playful expression faltered slightly. 

“I know,” Xavier said quickly, voice tight. “I know you say it’s not your fault that I keep getting shocked whenever I try to pass through a portal. But still.” He let out a breath. “It’s not fair.”

A long silence stretched between them. Plushfri tapped his fingers against the side of his bowl.

Then, with a sigh, he leaned back in his chair. “Alright. I shall do something utterly selfless and borderline heroic. My publishers will make a generous donation to your orphanage in Reality when I finish my next book. There, does that make you feel better? You have seduced this poet into financial obligation.” He rested a hand over his heart. “This officially makes us both good people.”

Xavier let out a breathy laugh, shaking his head. “Plushfri, I appreciate it. But the orphanage already gets donations. The problem isn’t the money, it’s that most people in charge just line their own pockets with it. They don’t actually care.”

Plushfri stared at him for a long moment. His eyes, usually so unreadable, flickered with something softer.

“…I have to go back,” Xavier said. “And I’d appreciate it if you put a little more effort into helping me, instead of, ” He gestured vaguely. “, whatever this is.”

Plushfri tilted his head. “Whatever you say, dearheart.” Then, with a dramatic sigh, he stretched and picked up his phone again. “Right after I finish this essay.”

Xavier blinked. “Essay?”

Plushfri nodded. “I enroll in a college class every three or four years to remain intellectually stimulated.”

Xavier opened his mouth, then closed it again. The image of Plushfri, chaotic, poetic, shameless Plushfri, sitting in a lecture hall, taking notes was too much to process. He decided, for his own sanity, not to question it.

Gang, I gotta end it here sorry 😭 but there’s so sosososo much more I swear.