[ bee's descriptions all start to run together, slipping through his fingers as he tries to piece them into a finished puzzle. a mouse. a fox. a knife. none of it makes sense, only the seed with the dew drops sends his throat tightening again, like something instinctive within him knows what that means, but he can't voice it or even think about it. there's a lot, lately, that he can't think about, all his changes rushing at him at once.

the best change, at least, is that he can taste bee's cake, zesty and sweet. it's the most he's eaten at once in days, his gratitude softening his edges. he hates skipping meals, not because of a sense of gluttony, but because he's never been able to shake the feeling of not knowing when he might have to go without again. ]

Dreams can't hurt you. [ he forces himself to say it, and to look like he believes it. ] You said it yourself — you can't even trust them. They're one step away from not being real, if you decide they aren't. They're only exactly what you want them to be.

[ he lifts a corner of bee's apron and wipes a smear of frosting from her mouth, then pushes an unruly lock of hair from her cheek. the urge to take her into his lap can be chalked up to all the havoc being wreaked inside his body. ]

What kind of secret? [ he scoops off another forkful of cake, and this time brings it to bee's lips, his other hand lifting his cigarette to his lips for a drag. ] Is it the kind that's gonna piss me off?