Archive of Our Own

“I packed sandwiches for everybody—they're on the fancy bread, so they should be nice 'n’ big! I hope you don't mind turkey, Nance.” Globby cheerily sets down the picnic basket on the sun-bleached wooden table. “We're glad you could make it!” 

Nance shifts uncomfortably on the bench. “Turkey's fine,” he answers stiffly. 

“Should be bacon on there too. I thought it would match scrumptiously with the hard-boiled eggs.” Felony Carl unfolds a paper napkin.

There's a slight breeze—the shadows of leaves on the table swish to and fro. The sun, squarely overhead, is unbothered by clouds in a pure blue sky. It's cool, but not enough to need a jacket. 

From an objective standpoint: today is a perfect day for a picnic. 

“Oh, that's smart,” Globby agrees. “It'll be like… late brunch! Kind of breakfast-y, kind of lunch-y.” 

Nance squints. “Um, actually, the type of food eaten isn't correlated to the name of the meal, it's all about the time. It's just lunch, since it's after noon. Brunch is late morning, but before noon,” he corrects. 

Felony Carl raises his brow. “Is that so.” 

“Oh… well, maybe instead of brunch, we could call it…” Globby scrunches up his face, “Lunchfast, or… hm… breaklunch…? Lunch only has one syllable, so this is kind of hard…” 

“Not the point. It is noon and we are eating lunch that just happens to have foods typically eaten for breakfast.” Which is something only people with no regard to what foods correspond to what meal according to the right time do, Nance keeps to himself. 

Felony Carl flips open the picnic basket's lid. “Merry lunchfast, Nance.” 

Nance opens his mouth to argue and then cuts himself off. 

…If he wants this to last, he has to put up with the imbecilic nonsense that is ‘lunchfast’.

Also from an objective standpoint: today is a perfect day for this picnic to go terribly wrong. 

Every single other time—which feels like more than twice, but both times—Nance has accepted Globby's nonsensical invitations to get food, things have ended terribly wrong. 

Last time they ended so wrong that Nance still has to fend off reporters milling outside of Mole Manor asking about the monstrous freak still free to rampage through the streets of San Fransokyo. 

He dismisses the thought. Nance intends for this excursion to go differently. 

“Whatever,” he says grudgingly. 

“Let's see… we also have potato chips… water, of course… oh, and grapes!” Globby rifles through the basket, taking out items as he does. 

Felony Carl passes Nance a water bottle and a sandwich wrapped in clear plastic. Nance refrains from listing the more convenient and economical ways to store and package produce. 

“The chips and grapes are for sharing, so we can put those in the middle of the table. We've got extra napkins and waters,” Globby concludes. 

“Thanks, Globs. It's been a while since we had a picnic—I'm grateful you suggested it.” Felony Carl unwraps his sandwich. 

Globby whistles. “Geez, it's been what, almost a year since we last did this here? Time really does fly.”

Nance picks at the plastic wrap of his still-wrapped sandwich. “So… do you guys… frequent this park?” he asks. The words are awkward.

“Oh, we go here a bunch! Last November me and Felony Carl spent all afternoon in this park; we got some great photos. Say, Carl, didja bring the camera with you?” Globby leans his elbows on the table and turns to Felony Carl. 

“Right here.” Felony Carl pats a canvas bag on the bench next to him. 

“Awesome! If the camellias have started blooming yet, you'll be able to get some really pretty pictures.” Globby starts on his sandwich. To Nance, he says, “Felony Carl's amazing with a camera. All the photos up in our apartment are ones that he's taken!” 

“I'm flattered. Photography is a treasured hobby of mine.” Felony Carl takes a bite of his sandwich, pleased. 

Photography.

What's so great about photography? You point the camera, you click, you get a picture. Nance can't think of an instance in which he could consider it art. It's so simple.  

“What's so special about taking pictures?” He leans back to look taller. 

Felony Carl chews. Swallows. He seems to think about it. 

“I enjoy being able to immortalize a moment exactly as it occurs. Being able to capture what makes an experience unique, and being able to look back on it, is what makes it special to me.” He unscrews his water bottle and takes a sip. 

Nance's posture deflates. That wasn't the answer he was anticipating. 

“I don't get it. What could be important enough to ‘immortalize’ at this park? It's just a park,” he sniffs. 

Globby looks at him with an expression he can't read. Felony Carl replaces the cap on his water. 

“It's not ‘just’ a park, it's a park. I like it here. I like being here with people important to me. I find that important enough to warrant creating a keepsake of the memory,” Felony Carl says conversationally. “You don't have to ‘get it’, but I request that you respect it.” 

Nance says nothing. 

They're both so… so… saccharine. It's like every little thing matters to them! It's just a park, and some sandwiches, and some plants! 

He doesn't get it. He never has. 

He reminds himself that he wants this to end better than last time. Corny as Globby and Felony Carl are, he needs to be on his best behavior. 

“If it makes you feel better,” Nance assuages. 

“Nance, why don't you try your sandwich? You still haven't unwrapped it—I think you'll like it!” Globby redirects the conversation. 

“Mm,” Nance responds.

He peels off the sticky plastic coating. It's like a mucus membrane. Ew. 

The sandwich is between two slices of thick, hard-crusted bread; what Globby referred to as the 'fancy’ kind. The crust is studded with small seeds: sesame, by the look of it. 

As for the contents of the sandwich, turkey, bacon, and hard-boiled egg slices are neighbor to tomato, romaine lettuce, and some type of cheese. Provolone? White cheddar? 

“What's the cheese on it?” He inspects the toppings. 

“Gouda! It's called that because it's good-ah.” Globby grins at his own joke.

Nance does not deign this with a response. 

In addition to everything else, the bread is slathered with a mixture of mustard and mayonnaise. He lifts the top slice of bread and observes the way the sauces smotch together.

…It doesn't appear to be out of sorts. Fresh ingredients—the tomatoes aren't mushy. He puts the top slice back in its place. 

Hm. There is one thing that could immediately be improved. 

Nance forms his hand into a bread knife and holds the sandwich in place. He precisely cuts into it, a few centimeters beyond the crust, and starts to slice. 

He works at each side for a few moments, and then discards the crust with its embedded sesame seeds limply on the table. He reverts his hand back to its typical appearance.

“Not a fan of the crusts?” Globby looks confused. “I'll take 'em if you don't want them, then.” 

“They are the most nutritious part,” Felony Carl says. 

“Well, I don't require nutrients, so Globby can have them.” Nance pointedly deposits the crust on Globby's unfolded wrap. 

Nance holds his crustless sandwich with both hands. The bread is firm and dry; the moisture of the lettuce and tomato hasn't leached into it. 

He takes a bite.

Oh!

As always, the initial jolt of experiencing flavor after an extended period without it is sharp and potent. He waits for the shock to subside. It's not dissimilar to getting used to comparatively cold water after diving into a pool. 

Now, the full, actual sensation blooms across his mouth, portions of his synthetic brain previously unused engaging to process the new stimuli. 

Sandwiches are interesting. Sandwiches combine contrasting individual flavors into a variegated palette. Umami, salty, cool and crisp; textures dance together, crunchy and soft and in-between. They're the Jackson Pollocks of the culinary world. 

On the surface, they seem uncomplicated, even juvenile in technique—you take ingredients and put them between two slices of bread. Not much skill in that. 

Nance chews the turkey, the bacon, the gouda, the hard-boiled egg and lettuce and tomato, and the subtle yet hardy flavor of the bread, and he contemplates this. 

The flavor profile would change if even one of these items were omitted. Alone, they would be insignificant, even unappetizing. Yet brought together with intention, even plain things create something unique. 

He focuses on each factor that contributes to the sum of the sandwich: the mustard-mayo combination, acidic and fatty, work hand in hand to supplement the both literal and metaphorical meat of the meal. 

The turkey is sliced white meat, tempered by the vivid taste and whole-hearted crunch of bacon. 

Hard-boiled egg slices act as another source of protein. The understated egg whites and the cakey yolks add dimension. 

To cut through the intense savory, tomato slices bring fresh relief, and romaine is effective in its duty of breaking up the thick flavors. 

Gouda is a middle-man between soft and hard. The cheese is rich, slightly tangy, and pairs with the salt without overpowering. 

The layered synergy of the sandwich is… Nance has underestimated it. 

He pauses for water, goo of his amorphous hands sinking into the small ridges and divots of the cap and unscrewing it easily. The plastic crinkles as he drinks. 

“What do you think, Nance?” Globby asks, plucking a grape from its stem. 

He could say it's bad. 

He could say it's an insipid, pale imitation of something actually valuable, that putting lousy and lousy together doesn't make something good. 

He could prove Globby wrong again, that the food he made isn't right, that what he's trying to do here isn't working. 

But that's what he's been doing, hasn't he? 

What does he stand to gain from it? He's already on thin ice, isn't he? Can it take another fracture?

Why does he want to crack it? 

“It's…” 

Why does he try to break things so badly when all it leaves him with is broken things? 

“It's not bad.” 

He scowls at his water bottle. If he says it's good, that makes Globby right, which makes him wrong. His shoulders prickle, something crawling down his fluid spine, itching. 

He should say something more, but there's a blockage in his ‘throat’. The moment has passed. 

“Oh, if it's not the right texture for you, sometimes I add chips to my sandwiches! To make them crunchier.” Globby opens the bag of potato chips and slides them over to Nance hopefully. 

What? 

Potato chips, as a sandwich topping? 

The idiosyncrasy jarrs Nance out of his thoughts. Who on earth would put chips in a sandwich? 

Globby would. Globby absolutely would do something weird like this. 

Nance recalls the past couple times he's seen Globby eat; he has a preference for hearty things with a lot of salt, excluding desserts. It's exactly like him to put potato chips on a sandwich like it's normal. 

“I'd rather not make it saltier,” he declines. If he had a nose to upturn, he would be doing so, but he doesn't. 

“Right, you're not big on salt… we always have grapes to fall back on!” Globby now gestures to the bag of grapes. “The purple kind, too.” 

“Actually, they're called red grapes. They're only violet in coloration,” Nance condescends automatically. 

“Really? Why? They're not red, they're purple.” Globby tilts his head. 

“The color ‘purple’ as we know it is only a relatively recent development in the English language. For a long time, ‘red’ has been used to describe hues that we nowadays would call something else. I assume that these ‘red’ grapes are a holdover from this,” Felony Carl speculates. 

“Huh. Neat!” Globby pops a few grapes in his mouth. “Handy that we have the word 'purple’ now. Otherwise me and Nance would be called red.” 

Nance blinks. “Well, I was gonna say that.” 

“That it's good we have the word 'purple’?” 

“No, the other—oh, forget it,” he says sullenly. 

“Red or purple or however you call it, you ought to try the grapes. They're refreshing!” Globby insists. 

Nance hadn't minded eating his sandwich, but he can just finish it afterwards. He would look weird if he refused twice in a row. 

Why does he care? It's only food. 

“Mmhm. I bet.” Nance's tone is dry as he reaches for the grapes. 

They grow in bunches together, grapes. Clusters. Red as their name may be, the skins are a deep, velvety purple. Connected by spindly stems, they almost remind Nance of something, but he can't quite place it. 

He plucks a few grapes from their stems, breaking off parts of a whole, and struggles to tack down that curious sense of déjà vu. 

He holds a grape up to a patch of sunlight dappling the table. In the recesses of its form, in that cloudy violet, it does blush red. 

Oh, that's what it is. 

He idly touches a hand to the corner of his eye. 

He hadn't always had this eye, he recalls now, distantly; there were others like it, in a cluster, before it was his. Before he made it his. 

It feels like a lifetime ago. 

He blinks once more. It's just a grape. His eye is green now, anyways. 

He flicks the grape he was studying into his mouth. 

Pop!

If olives were grenades of salt and bitterness, grapes are grenades of tart sweetness. Nance has to recompose himself.

The surface tension of the grape's skin, when split, reveals a soft, gushy interior. They have a high water content—the inside of his mouth instantly feels cool from grape juice. 

It's a fascinating texture. Nance eats another to experience it again, as the first grape was fleeting. 

The sound grapes make when crushed satisfies him. 

Satisfaction from food is a strange thing, to Nance.

If he cannot be truly hungry, he cannot be truly satisfied. He eats when he wants to and stops when he wants to. It is unattached to the concept of filling that which is empty. 

The sense of absence is fickle, once realized. Only after Globby invited him to eat did he notice its lack. And even then, it does not present itself the way he must imagine it does for people who eat to fulfill a necessity. 

He crunches another grape. 

He doesn't understand the sensation of ‘full’ in the same way he doesn't understand the sensation of ‘hungry’. When he ate cheesy fries, he wondered: is this what it means to need? 

He knows he is incapable of needing. So the closest thing he can conceptualize is wanting, or not wanting. He wants to eat and so he does. He doesn't want to eat and so he does not. 

He's just here for the food, he often repeats, and yet… it's a frivolity. 

Upon first gaining sapience, upon the world becoming his oyster, he fantasized of living in an obscure foodie district, any number of restaurants and bistros and exotic dishes at his fingertips.

And he does indulge in these such things, on occasion. He has just found it to be more trouble than it's worth much of the time. 

Nance bites a grape in half instead of eating it whole, this time. He pulls the uneaten half away, and oh—the outside was purple, was red, but the inside is green. 

A light, translucent sort of green, but green nonetheless. 

He says he is here for the food, and yet, he could stop eating at any time and it wouldn't matter one way or another. He doesn't need it. He wants it. 

That's starting to feel like an excuse. What does he really want? 

“So, how are they?” Globby interrupts. 

“What?”

“The grapes. Are they refreshing?” he asks. 

Nance has been staring at half of a grape for several beats longer than can be considered usual. He stuffs it in his mouth and chews to buy himself time. 

He'd forgotten they were talking about this. Are they refreshing? 

He swallows. 

It's green.

It's new.

It's juicy and robust and distinct. 

How similar are ‘refreshed’ and ‘satisfied’? Can you have one and not the other? 

“I suppose,” Nance decides. 

Globby smiles. “Have as many as you want! It's a big bag.” He goes back to putting chips on his open half-eaten sandwich. 

How does Globby do it? 

He says he and Nance are alike. 

Nance watches him eat his chips-and-sandwich, happy-go-lucky, not a care in the world. Globby doesn't need to eat, and he doesn't need to like this park, and he doesn't need to ask Nance to come along, and he does all of these things anyways. 

Is it because he wants to? 

Nance can understand wanting something. Nance cannot understand wanting this. 

Felony Carl said he doesn't have to get it.

He wants to get it. 

Nance doesn't see how he and Globby are alike. 

He picks up his unfinished sandwich. 

That keeps cropping up, again and again, no matter how many times he tries to carry on as he always has. No matter how much he tries to forget it, there remains that rough-hewn, immutable block in his mind, that condensed frustration of something being beyond him. 

He continues eating his sandwich and is met again with the symphony of different flavors and textures.

He could pick apart each facet of the sandwich, each characteristic that made it what it is, the same as he could dissect an orchestra for all its instruments that make it what it is. 

He can see the machinery. He can see the parts working together, feel them, hear them, taste them. He can track where they start, where they go, how they end. 

With Globby, he can't. 

With Globby, that block has no handholds nor footholds. Its surface is blank and smooth. He can't see inside of it, he can't see what makes it tick. 

He accepted this invitation under the sense that sooner or later, the machinery he can't see will turn differently. Under the assumption of rejection. 

He's waiting for it. 

Nance wants today to end differently. But as he and Globby eat their sandwiches, he's still waiting. 

Felony Carl is the first to finish. “One can never go wrong with a classic,” he muses as he balls up plastic wrapping. 

“Yup, there's definitely a reason sandwiches have existed since forever.” Globby nods sagely and takes a large, exceedingly crunchy bite of his sandwich. “The first guy to make a sandwich must've been a genius.” 

Nance is compelled to protest the claim of sandwiches ‘existing since forever’, but since he himself is unsure of when the sandwich was invented, he comes to the difficult conclusion of resigning himself to Globby's ignorance. 

“Perhaps we need to find the identity of this influential character and put them on the dollar bill. To make things fair,” Felony Carl jokes, wiping off his hands. 

Globby laughs. “Up there with Lenore Shimamoto? I can picture it now—you go to a vending machine and you insert the Sandwich Guy dollar for your snacks.” 

“You should buy a sandwich with the Sandwich Guy dollar. Bring it full circle,” Felony Carl says logically. 

“Oh, duh!” Globby playfully smacks a hand against his head. “We've just gotta find a vending machine in San Fransokyo that sells sandwiches. One of the high-end ones, not the stuff on Ichiba Street. Then we'll be all set.”

“After we make the Sandwich Guy dollar tangible via petition,” Felony Carl continues.  

“Priorities, right. Catching me getting ahead of myself as per usual.” Globby finishes his sandwich with a cartoonish gulp and sighs contentedly. “D'ya think Krei might listen to me if I ask him if he can put Sandwich Guy's face on the dollar?” 

Nance watches them ramble aimlessly. None of it makes sense.

The invention of the sandwich isn't relevant nor impactful enough to merit putting its inventor's face on a dollar bill, and the actual inventor would be nigh impossible to verify. Globby has no bearing on what the country's currency looks like and neither does Alistair Krei. 

The pointless conversation is like a ritual. They're finishing their meal and extrapolating off of what they ate, as if on a cue. 

It's stupid.

It's very stupid, and Nance watches Felony Carl smile and Globby chuckle over something so stupid and the way they carry on this stupidity effortlessly and comfortably, and that sensation which was trickling down his shoulders now twists sickly in his chest. 

The last bite of his sandwich dissolves into his goo and the aftertaste sticks to the gel that formerly comprised his mouth. The inside of his mouth only exists when he wants it to, but he tastes just the same. 

It's hot and bitter for reasons unrelated to its ingredients. 

“Well, if everyone’s done, we can start cleaning this up. Nance, are you still hungry?” Globby asks. 

He doesn't get hungry. 

“No.” 

“Alright. Carl, would you hand me the picnic basket, then?” 

They're starting to put food away. Closing the grape bag, folding up the chips that Nance didn't eat. Gathering the trash left from cling wrap and napkins. Brushing away crumbs. 

Nance dispassionately contributes the wrinkled packaging from his own food. Is it over? Is this outing finished? 

He isn't sure what to make of that. 

“So… are we done here? We ate all the food.” He raises his brow. 

Globby looks up from where he's sorting the picnic basket and blinks. “Oh! No, we still had some plans for things to do here. You haven't even seen the park yet! That's why Felony Carl has his camera, remember?”

He backtracks, expression shifting. “I mean, if you want to go, you can, but I was actually planning to show you something if you’d stay. Even though it's not something you can eat.” 

Oh. 

Nance hadn't realized that they were including him in their plans to take photos of the park. He thought he was only to be present for the meal. 

Globby wants to show him something? He had a motive for this besides just getting Nance to eat with them? What does he want? 

What does Nance want? To leave? 

He fidgets, scratching the worn woodgrain of the picnic table. 

…He doesn't want to leave. If he left now, he would be restless. He needs to end this the right way. 

“Why not?” he says loftily. “I'll see whatever it is.” Nance flips his offhand over to give a cursory examination of his non-existent nails. 

Globby brightens at once. “Great! I've been looking forward to this.” 

…He's been looking forward to this? To this, to Nance accompanying them on mundane, fruitless occasions that they could just as well do without him? 

It can't matter that much. 

Nance digs his finger into the gritty pulp of the table's wood and then forcibly releases pressure. A ghostly mark is left in the picnic table's surface. 

Globby shuts the picnic basket's lid and stands up. “That's everything! I'd say that was a good lunchfast.” 

“Quite the bountiful lunchfast,” Felony Carl agrees, looping the strap to his camera's bag over one shoulder. 

Nance generously chooses not to comment on ‘lunchfast’. It is by a thin margin that he keeps his mouth shut. 

He stands from the picnic bench and hovers at the table in poorly masked unsurety. 

Globby notices Nance and his posture deliberately eases. He casually lifts the picnic basket and holds it out pleasantly. “Hey, Nance, would you hold the basket while I scout ahead? It'd be a big help.” 

It would be easy for Globby to carry it himself; Nance knows something that negligible wouldn't weigh on him in the slightest. 

He wants Nance to carry it. It can't be out of laziness. Globby is a lot of things, but ‘lazy’ isn't one of them. Is it the same reason he had Nance carry a napkin at the first dinner? 

“...Sure,” Nance says with suspicion, taking the wicker basket. 

So he can help? 

He adjusts his hold on the handle, frowning down at it. He doesn't do other people's dirty work. 

…Even still, he wouldn't want to give it back, now. 

He squints at the lid. If he's the one carrying it, it wouldn't hurt to look inside. He can probably fit the items in it in a better, more efficient way than Globby did. 

Inside the basket is about what he expected: assorted trash, unfinished and closed food. Waters and napkins. Rather underwhelming. He brushes aside some plastic—ah, there's bug repellant and a tube of sunscreen in here, too. 

For Felony Carl, he presumes. Nance and Globby don't have skin, so who else would use this? 

Sunscreen… 

“Excuse me, when was the last time you applied this?” Nance directs to Felony Carl, wagging the tube of sunscreen in hand. 

Felony Carl seems surprised by the question. “Probably… an hour and some minutes ago, to my recollection. Why?” 

“‘Reapply every 80 minutes, or at least once every two hours.’ Those are the directions. If we're going to be outside for longer you should reapply your sunscreen to avoid harmful UV exposure.” Nance points to the fine print on the bottle. Nobody ever reads the directions. 

“Ah, I see. Thank you for bringing this to my attention.” Felony Carl accepts the sunscreen. 

Nance's chest swells. “Uh-huh.” 

Finally! Someone listening to him when he tells them to follow the instructions listed! Much better than calling him an ‘it’ and also ‘horrifying’ and running away screaming. 

Felony Carl rubs the sunscreen on his arms and Nance thinks of how much better things would go if everybody did what he says like this. 

“I didn't think you cared this much—thanks for looking out for Carl like that,” Globby says, sincere. Nance turns to him abruptly. 

Nance bristles. “It's just a pet peeve of mine when people don't pay attention to the details they're supposed to.” 

“I guess most people just don't have as sharp of an eye as you. I know I never notice this kind of stuff. It's nice to have someone who can cover our blind spots, and nobody gets sunburnt.” Globby's tone is light. 

Nance clutches the handle of the picnic basket and the woven strands of wood squeak. 

He doesn't care about whether Felony Carl gets burned or not, he's just doing it to keep a precedent. None of the cloying sentiments that Globby implies are accurate whatsoever. 

Of course he should be thanked for setting people straight, but from Globby? The first time somebody appreciates the invaluable service he provides, and it's Globby? 

“Obviously nobody has as sharp an eye as me. The tribulations of being smarter and more observant than everyone else are endless. Exercising my genius for the less fortunate is the least I can do,” he says through a taut smile. 

Globby exhales with what Nance indignantly posits as amusement. “Right.” 

Nance is about to get angry at not being taken seriously, but Felony Carl speaks up, handing back the tube of sunscreen. “That should do it. No UV exposure for me now.” 

Globby fails to bite back a snrk, and then reaches over to swipe off some errant sunscreen left streakily on Felony Carl's cheek. “You might want to rub it in on your face more.” 

“Noted.” Felony Carl runs a hand over the spotty coverage on his cheekbone. 

Nance returns the sunscreen to the basket. He's growing impatient. “You can do that as we walk. Globby, what did you want to show me?” 

Globby perks up. “I think you're gonna like this. Follow me!” He gestures as he says it, and then slithers ahead. 

Nance huffs in annoyance. No explanation? Felony Carl is walking now too, so Nance picks up the pace. 

He could easily get to wherever they're going faster if he dropped his humanoid appearance and moved without the tedium of limbs, but he's holding the picnic basket, and he's wearing his beret and bowtie… it would be a hassle to keep track of all these things at once. Plus, he doesn't know their destination. 

He plods on at the same gait Globby and Felony Carl do, just slightly behind. The park isn't very populated today, but just in case anyone sees him, he'd want the plausible deniability that he isn't associated with those two. Globby intermittently glances over his shoulder to make sure Nance is still there. 

He hadn't paid much attention to their surroundings as they were eating. He isn't making conversation right now, and he has no food to occupy his senses, so his attention is left only with the ambiance of the park. 

The trees rustle softly in the breeze. He boredly picks out where the leaves look near white in the sun, colors shifting as they move. Somewhere, he hears birdsong. 

Grass underfoot is springy and uneven. A definite contrast to the polished tile and unblemished marble of Mole Manor, as well as the uniform grit of San Fransokyo's sidewalks. 

His arms swing as he walks. There's no possible way he could be trapped here—outside, there are no walls. 

Something flashes in his mind. Was this location on purpose? Did Globby try to curate the farthest possible conditions from Joe's Diner for this outing? The thought is accusatory. He has no throat, but the phantom sensation of it burning is unmistakable. 

Was there that much consideration put into this? Nance forces his grip on the picnic basket's handle to remain lax. They're trying to accommodate him. He should have realized sooner, should've put it together… 

Nance simmers under the pleasant shade of the park's trees. He isn't sure why it feels like an insult. 

He can handle himself. 

The acrid stench of cracked asphalt resurfaces in his mouth, and he pushes it away. So maybe he couldn't then. 

He can now. 

Globby's stopped walking. They've come to a small, remote area, where the path is less legible and the foliage is more dense. Sunlight filters through the leaves in glowing splotches. 

“Is this it?” Nance looks around, irritable. “What exactly am I supposed to be looking at?” 

Globby turns around and grins. “Look at the bushes! Some of the camellias are flowering already!” 

Nance peers more closely at them. Shiny, dark leaves, woody stems adorned with small green knot-like buds. 

And, as it turns out, flowers. 

It seems he'd been too offended to notice all of the flowers blooming on the bushes in this area. White and pink blossoms with yellow centers unfurl, and those green buds show hints of the petals yet to come.  

“You brought me all the way out here for some flowers?” Nance sets the picnic basket down and crosses his arms. 

“They're called sasanqua camellias. Not many flowers bloom in fall and winter, but sasanquas do. In fact, these ones are a little premature,” Felony Carl informs levelly. He unzips his camera bag. 

“This is the place Felony Carl showed me last year! I wanted you to see it, too.” Globby looks happily at the flower bushes. “You've never seen sasanqua camellias before, have you?” 

Nance scowls incredulously for a moment before answering. “I haven't.” 

“They're even better up close. Come over here and look,” Globby beckons. 

All this for flowers? Really? Nance scoffs as he comes to stand at Globby's side. Why is he humoring Globby? He ought to turn right back around and get out of here before he wastes more of his time looking at some dumb plants. 

His feet stay rooted in place. 

“They're more fragile than regular camellias. Their petals are thinner.” Globby gently lifts a slender branch, cupping the budding camellia with one hand. “You have to be careful when you touch them.” 

Nance gives Globby an unimpressed side-eye. “What does it matter? It's just a flower.” 

The corner of Globby's mouth tugs downwards a degree. “What's the point in messing them up, either? The flowers aren't just for us, too. Other people like them. Bees and other bugs use them.” 

Nance looks out at the array of camellias. Cradled in many of the flowers’ yellow stamens, bees root around slowly. A few lazily buzz near sasanquas a distance away. 

“They've got a bunch of pollen, that's good for making honey. They're important for the park.” Globby runs his finger lightly over a creamy white petal. 

“Hm.” Nance furrows his brow. Even if the flowers serve a purpose, why should he care about them? 

“Try feeling the petals. They're super soft.” Globby offers Nance the branch he was supporting. 

Touch the flowers? The ones Globby just said were easily breakable? Nance's hand twitches. He recalls how easy it is to crush things. How good it feels. 

He can handle himself, he repeats. He can touch the dumb flower if Globby really wants him to. He doesn't get it, but… well, he's here now. 

Nance tentatively accepts the branch, and Globby withdraws his hand.

The sasanqua camellia is more… delicate, up close. Finely made. He studies the flower without touching it, just holding the reliable stem. 

White, frilly petals, tinged with the faintest suggestion of pink. They overlap and fold over each other like tissue paper. He can make out tiny veins running through each petal. In the center of the camellia is a swathe of powdery stamens, thick with pollen. 

He brushes a finger over one of the petals and it feels like silk. Smooth and soft. He pinches it between a thumb and forefinger, hyper-aware of the pressure he's applying, and feels its cool surface. 

“It's soft, isn't it?” Globby asks. 

Nance's hand lingers on the camellia before he pulls it back. He'd spoil that softness if he crushed it like he's so good at doing. “Uh-huh.” 

What does Globby want him to do? There's always something. He felt the flower; is that what they walked all the way over here for? For Nance to touch a flower petal? 

“Felony Carl likes to take photos of them 'cause they're so pretty, but you can never feel how soft they are in photos,” Globby reminisces fondly. 

“Why take the photos, then?” Nance turns his head to see Felony Carl aiming his camera at a camellia bush on the far side of their secluded nook. 

“You still get to admire how they look if you get a picture, right? And you can remember how they felt when you look at it.” Globby looks at Nance's face and Nance doesn't look back. “How they smell, too.” 

“They smell like anything?” Nance has no idea why he encouraged Globby to talk more. 

Globby lights up. “They smell awesome! You've got to try it. Go on, smell it!” 

Nance frowns. “‘Awesome’ has got to be hyperbolic. No flower smells ‘awesome’, it smells like a flower.” 

“Maybe this flower smells awesome!” 

Nance rolls his eye. Fine. He'll smell the flower too and prove that it's just like any other flower. 

He—cautiously, controlledly—brings the sasanqua camellia closer to his face and dips the branch towards him. He leans into the vibrant, cheerful yellow and inhales deeply. 

It's sweet.  

It's like perfume. Sweet and almost intoxicating. Floral, obviously. Do bees smell? Is that why they spend so much time in the center of these flowers? 

For flowers so dainty, he hadn't expected them to have such a strong smell.

He doesn't have a nose, but the goo on his face in that general area is where he typically dedicates olfactory functions. He tweaks this self-set restraint to absorb the scent through his whole face. It permeates through him, omnipresent. 

He pulls himself away from the camellia and blinks. And then sneezes—a function useless to him that came along with the artificial human brain. Triggered by pollen, he assumes. 

Globby laughs. A bubbly, snorty laugh. Recovering, he waves a hand at Nance's face. “You've got a little something… actually, a lot of something…” 

“What?” Nance asks petulantly, and brings a hand to his face. 

It comes back positively coated in yellow. Nance flushes a darker purple, which means his face is now a young artist's amateur experiment in complementary colors. 

“It's the same color as your clothes!” Globby wheezes. 

“It can't be that funny!” Nance whines and balls his hands into fists, straight at his sides. 

To Globby, it really must be that funny, because he's still giggling about it. “I guess it did smell awesome if you got that into it!” 

Nance opens his mouth and closes it. He resorts to grumbling in lieu of words. 

“Here—” Globby takes the sasanqua camellia in his hands again and sniffs it, tilting his face close to the flower. He breathes it in for several long seconds, enjoying the scent, and returns with an equally yellow not-nose. “—now we match!” 

Nance blows air past his lip in a pout that disturbs some of the pollen on his own face. “We don't need to match any more than we already do.” 

Globby's eyes twinkle with mischief. “Oh, so you think we already matched? I told you we're alike!” 

Nance sputters. “That's not what I meant and you know it! We aren't alike!” 

Globby shrugs with an incredibly frustrating self-satisfied expression. “That's what I heard, Nance.” 

Nance growls and stomps a foot, and takes great care in not doing anything more. Globby doesn't know what he's talking about. A superficial similarity like some silly pollen is nothing. On fundamental levels, Nance and Globby are entirely different. 

What must Globby be smelling that makes him believe otherwise? It can't be the camellia. Something in Nance's chest lashes fiercely. 

He's about to roughly wipe the pollen off of his own face so that he and Globby don't even have that in common, but before he can even lift his arm, he hears a click.

A camera shutter. 

He whips around to see Felony Carl emerging from behind his camera. “I had to preserve this momentous occasion,” he explains with a small smile. 

“Oh, I love it when you take candids! That one's totally gonna be a keeper.” Globby claps his hands together. 

“You took a photo of me?! Like this?” Nance flutters his hands at his own still pollen-covered face. 

“Correct.” Felony Carl focuses his camera now on a bee. 

“Unbelievable!” Nance gasps. “You can't keep that photo. My incredibly handsome face can't be seen in this state. Especially not with him.” He jerks a thumb towards Globby, who seems perfectly at peace with all of this. 

“Do you not want any photos taken of you?” Felony Carl meets his eye genuinely. “You seemed… the confident type, so I thought you wouldn't mind. Perhaps that was a misjudgement.” 

Nance's temper slows. He hadn't expected to be given a choice. 

“I'd be depriving the world of a face as perfect as mine if I never had any photos taken, but the world doesn't need to see photos of me looking like a nitwit.” 

He rubs pollen off of his face, yellow dusting his arm now. “Tell me when you're going to take one so I can look most presentable.” 

Felony Carl nods once. “Understood.” He goes back to photographing his bee. 

Things go so smoothly when people listen to Nance. Something in his core pricks at the want for this to be a feeling he experiences more often. Another prick as he contends with the fact he only feels this with… Globby and Felony Carl. 

His fists uncurl, tension evaporating uneasily into the sun-spotted leaves overhead. He watches the branches sway with their white-pink flowers. He can still smell the sasanqua. 

Now he notices Globby beside him, watching where he is looking and saying nothing. Arms folded loosely behind his back. There's something… studious, about his face. Quietly inquisitive. Nance watches him out of the corner of his eye and waits to see what he wants. 

The breeze stirs the slime of Nance's shoulder, and he thinks of how the camellia petals are so delicate they're nearly translucent. The light passes through them; he could see the purple smudge of his own hand through that silken, glass-like petal. 

Afternoon sun shines on his face and chest and arms and he feels see-through. The space where he should be is occupied, but only by a shell. 

What is the purpose of this? 

Camellias exist for the pollinators and are planted by the park for the enjoyment of guests. Camellias, though they don't appear to have one at first glance, have a purpose. 

So what is Globby's purpose with whatever this is? 

Nance shifts on the grass. Last time there was the asphalt street beneath his feet. 

He remembers how it felt to split it. 

Globby could've left him there. He didn't. What is the purpose in that? 

If Nance doesn't know the purpose, how can he know when he has transgressed it? When can he find the real limit to Globby's goofy attitude? 

Sasanqua camellias are beautiful, but so fragile. 

So much more fragile than asphalt. And he hardly even noticed the asphalt giving beneath his weight. How is he supposed to be so gentle? 

At some point, those pretty petals are going to tear. 

“How were the camellias?” Globby follows his gaze, set on the treeline. 

Nance doesn't look at him. “...Fine.” 

“You know, it's okay to say you don't like them. Not that you have to be told that, but… just in case.” Globby's voice is more subdued than before. Nance identifies it: resignation. 

Nance has no gut, but he does feel a pit form where his should be. Has he finally found it? The edge of Globby's grace? 

Globby had to have shown him sasanqua camellias for a reason. It may be a stupid reason, but there's something unexpectedly fervent in Nance's lack-of-gut that keeps him from putting this all behind him. 

Nance doesn't want this to be his last chance at whatever this is. He doesn't know how to articulate it. But he knows, beyond how much he instinctively hates everything Globby does, everything involved with this, that if it were to go? 

…Sasanquas are very fragile. 

He has to be careful with them. 

“...I like them.” He's quieter than he's ever spoken to Globby before. 

Globby's head snaps towards him. His eyes are wide, jaw agape. Nance is insulted and embarrassed and something else that such a simple phrase from his mouth garners this reaction. 

“...You what?” Globby asks in disbelief. 

Nance squashes a wave of anger. He doesn't want to have to repeat himself. 

“I like the camellias.” He keeps looking away from Globby. 

Like a drop of ink in water, Globby's face changes to elation. His eyes crinkle. “I'm glad you like them, Nance!” It's as though he weighs nothing; his movements are bouncy, untethered. 

And still Nance doesn't get it. How do flowers matter so much to Globby? He looks so happy it nearly makes Nance wince. 

…He's not leaving. Whatever it is that Nance did by saying he liked the camellias, it made Globby not leave. 

So many times he's begged Globby to leave. Now he's playing along with these mind games? To get Globby to stay? Why does he keep doing this? 

The answer comes to him with an ease and clarity usually only awarded by the sun to the trees. 

Because if he leaves, that makes Nance right. It makes Nance right: everyone leaves, no matter what, because he wants them to and he can make them. It makes Nance right and Globby wrong. 

So far, Nance has not proven himself right. 

So far, he's proven Globby right, many, many times. 

Despite the warmth of the afternoon, Nance is cold.

That means he himself is wrong.

Deeper than that. Nestled in this if/then statement, ‘If I act this way, it makes people leave,’ there is the intrinsic knowledge: Nance wants them to leave. 

He can feel Globby's presence right next to him. 

What happens if that intrinsic knowledge is also wrong? 

He thought earlier—what does he really want? 

Nance is a lot of things. A coward is not one of them. He wants to answer that question, and so he will. Regardless how sick it makes him. 

“We still have extra napkins in the picnic basket, if you'd like to take care of… all that.” Globby gestures vaguely to the pollen smeared over Nance's face and arm. 

Nance breaks his vigil at the treeline and takes a quick inventory of how much of a mess he's made. “...That would be beneficial.” 

They walk to where Nance set down the picnic basket. Globby whistles something familiar—he whistles the same melody he did while walking Nance out. Nance clenches a hand. 

Globby flips open the lid and digs around, retrieving a handful of only slightly crumpled napkins. The melody continues as he does. Nance recalls the birdsong he heard earlier. 

“That should be enough. I'll clean up too,” Globby says, pointing to his own yellow-dusted face with a lopsided smile. 

Nance grabs some napkins and scrubs the stains on his arm and face. This is not the first time he's grown his own pile of dirtied napkins. 

Globby does the same, and any remnants of their superficial similarity are gone. 

Globby narrows his eyes at Nance. “Missed a spot.” He leans in and dabs off a bit of pollen from underneath Nance's eye with a napkin, in much the same way he did for Felony Carl's sunscreen. He doesn't even think when he does it. 

Nance blinks many times in rapid succession. Globby's audacity will never not astound him. Aside from Richardson, Globby is the only one who ever really touches Nance. He tends to be given a wide berth by most everyone else, for good reason.

The closeness unnerves him. Nance wads up his purple-and-yellow napkins with a little too much force. 

Globby takes them from him, and puts them in the basket along with his own. He dusts off his hands with the accomplishment of a simple task completed. 

“We are officially pollen-free. I'm glad we've got that photo, though.” Globby looks at Nance wryly, as if they're in on something. A joke? Is he teasing Nance? 

“You're only lucky you caught me in a lapsing moment of weakness,” Nance says huffily, flicking an invisible speck of dirt off his bowtie. 

“Oh, I see. Camellias are your weakness.” Globby closes the picnic basket and picks it up. 

“Twist my words any more, would you?” Nance shoots back. 

“What? You said you liked them!” Globby's voice slips into a sing-song near the end. He is so annoying! 

Nance groans. “You can't be reasoned with. I should know this.” 

“Yeah, you should.” Globby looks like he's enjoying this immensely. Nance yearns to wipe that look off of his face. 

“Is that all you wanted me to see?” Nance changes the subject. He's had quite enough of Globby's insufferable triumphance. 

Globby rocks back and forth on his feet. “Well… there's one more thing I had in mind, if you're up for it.”  

Nance had been preparing for this to be the end. It's not? There's still more? The impending finality of this outing looms over him, postponed. 

“What else is there in a park? Grass?” He puts a hand on his hip. “I might as well. I refuse to let the only photo taken of me today be that one, so a change in location would give me more opportunity to be my true photogenic self.” 

Globby hides a smile. “In that case…” He spins around and finds where Felony Carl is set up. “Hey, Carl!” 

“Hm?” 

“Me 'n’ Nance are gonna go to the fountain. Can you catch up once you're done taking pictures?” Globby points with both hands in the direction the fountain must be. 

“Affirmative.” Felony Carl gives him a thumbs up and goes back to what he was doing. 

Globby now shifts his attention to Nance. “This way,” he says, picnic basket bouncing against his leg as he sets off. 

Nance falls into step beside him. He's given up pretending like he isn't affiliated with Globby. 

Globby alternates between whistling and humming some meandering tune, just for the sake of doing it, Nance supposes. The scene is familiar. 

Nance isn't running this time, though. 

“We're going to a fountain?” He keeps his tone flat. 

“Yup! There's this big fountain in one of the more public areas of the park. I visit it whenever I go here.” Globby admires the scenery as he walks. 

Nance has seen a number of elaborate, well-maintained fountains. The Mole Manor courtyard houses symmetrical fountains, serenely positioned between manicured topiaries. It's not uncommon for the events hosted by and for the upper echelon of San Fransokyo to have brilliant, showy fountains, water as art. 

In comparison, any fountain that this public park has cannot be that good. Why bother going to some glorified concrete puddle when there's much classier options available? 

“If you go here for the fountain, I'm sure there are countless more tasteful areas that would be more worth your time.” Nance internally applauds himself at being so helpful. 

Globby's whistling falters for a moment. Nance can feel his eyes on him, that quiet prying look. He hates it when Globby looks at him like that. Like he's a puzzle. 

He hasn't said anything out of the ordinary! Nance represses a sigh; whenever he tries to guide Globby in the right direction, which he is not obligated to do, this happens. 

“I don't think I'd want to go to a different fountain,” Globby replies, and Nance can tell he's still looking at him, even if not head-on. 

“Trust me, I've seen all sorts of fabulous fountains. They'd put the one at this park to shame,” Nance continues. He's giving good advice here! 

“You haven't seen this fountain yet.” Globby isn't whistling. “Anyways, I don't like it because of its looks.” 

“Fountains are for decoration. The whole point of fountains is how they look,” Nance rebuts. 

“I mean, it looks fine. I think it looks pretty. I just like it for other reasons too.” Globby shrugs one shoulder. 

“It's just a fountain. It's not that deep.” Nance spreads his hands. 

“Nance, I know a lot of things matter to you that don't matter to most people. Is it so hard to believe that things that don't matter to you, matter to me?” Globby says patiently. 

Nance drops his hands. 

This whole trip, Nance hasn't understood why such purposeless things matter to Globby. Why he cares. Why he does the things he does. 

Something he's heard Globby say before murmurs in his mind. 

“...more about trying to guess what the other person would notice instead of what you would…"

Nance mentally detangles the frustration matting his thoughts together and exhales.

“Fine. Why does it matter so much to you, then?” Nance looks at Globby.

Globby doesn't answer, and Nance is about to snap at him for it, but then he notices Globby has stopped. 

Nance faces forward, and there the fountain is. 

It's nothing special. A modest boxy stone structure, a fish statue spitting water in a glistening arc into the pool. A meager path set apart from the grass rings its base. 

Globby approaches the fountain. He sets the picnic basket down on the ground and sits on the fountain's rim, looking at the water. Nance understands the silent invitation Globby is putting forth. 

He lingers at the grass, like crossing the threshold onto the path would make it too late to turn back.

He joins Globby to sit on the plain fountain. 

Globby doesn't look up from the shallow water when Nance sits. Nance swallows his impatience for what feels like the millionth time this afternoon. 

“There used to be a lot more coins at the bottom of this fountain,” Globby notes. 

Nance follows his gaze. It's true. The bottom of the fountain only has a smattering of pennies, and circular stains crowd the concrete, where coins must have rested for a long time before being removed. 

“How is that related?” he asks peevishly. 

“Back when I was a supervillain, I robbed this fountain. Took just about every penny in it by camouflaging myself as the water and making a break for it.” Globby skims his hand over the surface of the water. 

Nance knew Globby used to be a villain. He knew of San Fransokyo's near demise, and Globby's role in it, through osmosis. He finds it hard to believe Globby could have ever done that sort of thing, but stealing pennies from a public fountain? That's more believable. 

“I didn't actually keep any of those coins. To get away, I transformed into a giant penny—we were talking about putting the guy who invented sandwiches’ face on the dollar, right? Well, I put my own face on that penny and rolled off. I lost all the money.” 

Globby takes his hand back and rests it against the stone, leaving dark marks. 

“I'm not even sure why I tried to steal them in the first place. I couldn't use them anywhere since I was a wanted criminal, and it's not like Obake's lair had vending machines.” His eyes stay trained on the ripples in the pool. “It was a waste.” 

Nance shifts on the stone. This is all precisely as incompetent as he expected from Globby, but how is this relevant? This isn't the first time Globby has gone on a redundant tangent before, but it doesn't make waiting for him to make his point any easier. 

“...So?” Nance prompts. 

“After the city was saved, I decided to become a good guy. But that meant going back to living like a person, which meant hard, boring stuff, like finding a place to stay, and getting a job, and being… normal, more or less.” 

Nance's focus drops to the water of the fountain lapping at the wall. He can hear the burble of water falling into the pool, sending tiny waves to its edge. 

“It was really difficult. I didn't see the point in a lot of it; I wanted to be special, and none of that stuff was special. I was back to square one, but with different problems.” Globby studies the open palm of his hand, the one that was in the water.

“Last year, when I was dealing with all that, Felony Carl took me to this park. He showed me that just because I was back to living regular life, it didn't mean that it wasn't important or special.” He closes his hand. 

The stone is baked from the sun, and is warm under Nance's form. “But why like this specific fountain? You robbed it.” 

“The first time I saw the fountain again, when Felony Carl took me here, I felt bad. People would toss pennies into the fountain and make wishes. All those wishes, all those memories, coins that'd been there for years, were gone because of me,” Globby says evenly. 

“They're coins.” Nance stresses, unsympathetic. 

“They're coins, but they meant something to someone. They meant something to every person who put their coin in this fountain, even if they're coins,” Globby says. “It mattered to me. I couldn't take that back, but I wanted to help.” 

“You wanted to help? The fountain?” Nance asks in equal parts sarcasm and disbelief. 

“Ever since Felony Carl and I went to this park last year, whenever I'm around this fountain, I add my own coin. It's small, and you'll probably think it's pointless, but it's something I do because I want to.” 

Globby takes the picnic basket and slides his hand beneath the lid. His hand returns, holding two pennies, and he puts the basket down. 

“I brought you a coin, too. You can make a wish.” Globby meets Nance's eye. 

Nance stares at the penny Globby is holding out to him. 

This is what Globby wants? 

“I don't understand,” Nance says. 

Globby frowns. “What don't you understand? The wish thing?” 

“No. The same thing. The same thing you've been doing since the first dinner. I don't understand it.” The copper of the penny catches the light. 

Globby waits.

“You told me why you're… attached to this fountain. You haven't told me why you brought me here. You haven't told me what the purpose of this is.” Nance presses the heels of his gelatinous palms against the stone. 

“You want to know why I brought you here?” Globby echoes. Nance is exasperated by how long it takes for what he says to get through Globby's thick goopy skull. 

“Yes! Why do you keep bringing me along? Are you just waiting for me to screw up and break something in front of you again?” It takes more effort for Nance to speak.

He's angry. It's so easy for him to get angry when Globby's around. He can't just break things when he's angry, he reminds himself. 

While Globby is still finding his words, Nance plows on. “I don't get it. I don't get it! Haven't I done enough? Haven't I proven that this is a bad idea a thousand times over already? I'm not like you and Felony Carl. I don't get why you care about picnics, or flowers, or this fountain. I don't get what you want from me.” 

Nance's chest is tight. Trapped. He looks up at the sky yawning overhead, blue, blue, blue, open and never-ending. 

“I want to get it. Make me get it. Make me understand.” His voice catches. 

He needs to. He's never needed anything before, he still doesn't even fully understand ‘need’, but he needs this. 

Globby lowers the coins. He's looking at Nance the same way as when Nance was curled at the bottom of his own crater. Does it always end the same way? 

“Nance…” He sighs. “I brought you here because coming to this place helped me when I was having a hard time, and I know you're like me. I want to help you. I keep inviting you along because I want you to be here.” 

Globby puts a hand on Nance's shoulder. “There is no secret reason. I just like it when you're around.” 

Nance goes stiff. “You keep saying we're alike and we're not. I've told you too many times to count that we aren't like each other. You keep saying it.” 

Globby's features soften. “Do I need to convince you, Nance?” 

Nance might as well be part of the stone. Water trickles into the fountain without pause.

“Do you want to know why I see myself in you?” Globby's hand is still gently resting on his shoulder. 

Nance says nothing. 

“You're lonely. You're very lonely, and because of the way you act, no-one else tries to break through that loneliness to get to you.” Globby's eyes don't leave Nance's face, but Nance can't bring himself to meet them. 

“You've made bad decisions for attention and to prove a point and now you're left with the consequences.”

Nance scowls.

“You're both a monster and a regular guy at the same time, and nobody else gets that.” 

Globby’s hand rubs circles into Nance's shoulder.

“You want everything to have a purpose because you want to have a purpose.” 

The pit in his gut, the thing in his chest, they gape. 

“You want to change.” 

Nance squeezes his eye shut. He folds in on himself until his elbows rest against his knees. He aches like something was ripped out of him. 

“I know you want to change, Nance, because if you didn't, you wouldn't be here right now. If you didn't want to change, you wouldn't keep showing up. You wouldn't eat sandwiches and grapes, you wouldn't remind Felony Carl to put on sunscreen… you wouldn't smell the camellias… you wouldn't be sitting on this fountain with me, listening to me talk.” 

It hurts.

“I'm not giving up on you, Nance. Please don't give up on yourself.” 

For the longest time, for most of Nance's life, he has been trying to get away from Globby. 

For the longest time, he was biding his time, fighting in any way he could from the inside out to break free from him. 

For the longest time, the one thing he wanted most, the one thing that he wanted enough to save him from the brink of deteriorating into nothing, was to leave Globby. 

That want for independence was his lifeline. 

And now, with a body of his own, a mind of his own? 

He's going against that? 

It feels like betrayal. He's banked on this desire, on this steel resolve, this hate, his entire life. 

And here he is, sitting on a fountain with Globby, and he doesn't want to leave. 

He wants to stay. 

He wants to change. 

Nance pulls himself up and opens his eye. It's bright and blue and warm outside, and Globby is still here. 

“Can I have my penny?” Nance asks. His voice is raw. 

Globby smiles and hands him the coin. “There you go.” 

Nance forms a fist around his penny, as if someone is going to take it from him. 

Globby hums and readjusts how he's sitting. He lifts his own penny to the sun, and it sparkles like how the water in the fountain does. 

“I always make a wish when I toss a coin in the fountain. You're not supposed to tell anyone what it is, or else it won't come true, is what they say,” Globby explains. 

It's made-up. It's all just stories told to kids. Nance looks at Globby and wonders if that really matters very much. 

Globby closes his eyes and his penny in the air looks like a flare. He must have made his wish, because his eyes open and the penny falls into the water.

Sploosh.

It sinks to the bottom. One more coin to repopulate the fountain. 

Nance sees the way the water glitters, white like camellias, blue like sky, and the new coins at the bottom of the fountain glow. 

He wishes for this to last. 

Splash.

His penny drops, joining a collective. Two more coins to repopulate the fountain. 

Globby is right, and Nance is wrong. 

The fountain continues to flow. 

“It'll take a while for the fountain to have as many coins as it did before. But this is progress.” Globby's eyes trace the arc of the fish statue's stream. 

“Mm,” Nance says in response. It'd take years of leaving one or two pennies for the fountain to be what it must have been before. 

Globby's always hopeful for things that Nance would never entertain the idea of. 

…But Nance is here right now. And they have added two pennies, rather than taken two. 

It will be slow. But maybe. 

Nance turns at the sound of footsteps approaching. Felony Carl, with his camera, steps onto the fountain's path. 

“Oh, Carl! You're back!” Globby's face stretches into a wide grin. “Get any good photos?” 

“Indeed. Lots of excellent close-ups. Sasanqua camellias are a wonderful subject.” Felony Carl meets them at the fountain. 

“I bet. It's nice they're blooming this time of year.” Globby stretches his arms over his head. “Hey, do you think you could snap another photo? We haven't done a group shot yet!” 

“This is true. A group shot shall be in order, then,” Felony Carl agrees. 

“I did say I wanted to redeem myself from that last photo,” Nance adds touchily. 

“Let's take it here! The fountain makes for a good backdrop. I'll scoot over, and Felony Carl can sit with us.” Globby moves over to allocate space for Felony Carl. 

Nance scoots too. He only grimaces a little about it.

Felony Carl sets up his camera and leans in over Globby's side to get all of them in frame. “Say cheese.” 

“Cheeeese!” Globby beams. 

Nance rolls his eye and smirks. Who else would actually say ‘cheese’ for a picture? 

Snap! Snap!

“Took two just in case,” Felony Carl says, sitting back with his camera. 

“I trust that I look as comely as I am in person for those ones.” Nance humbly brushes himself off. 

“Thanks, Felony Carl. I'm glad we've got mementos of this.” Globby grabs the picnic basket. 

“Are we ready to depart?” Felony Carl stands. 

“I'd say so. Mittens is probably waiting to be fed already,” Globby chuckles. “Nance, how about you?” 

Nance puts a hand to his beret, making sure it's in the same spot it always is. 

It's over now. So this is a regular goodbye. 

The ending that was looming… doesn't seem as dark, now. It doesn't seem like his swan song anymore. 

Maybe it isn't as fragile as he thinks. 

“Yes. Farewell and et cetera,” Nance waves. 

“Thanks again for coming, Nance. I had a lot of fun with you.” Globby returns his wave. “See you next time!” 

“Bye, Nance. Glad to have you.” Felony Carl zips up his camera bag. 

Watching Globby and Felony Carl's retreating backs exit the park, Nance listens to the constant bubble of the fountain. 

Next time, huh? 

Two pennies flicker in the blue. 

There'll be a next time.