in the pressing, damp dark, there’s the trim of wind and a breath of rain, bringing with them the grime-stench that had been briefly blown apart like shreds of a cloud. the sound of voices, footsteps. breakfast simmering on the table, clinking ceramic, here, sit here. a pair of hands reaches towards him, followed by a woman calling his name -- there’s sunshine but no light, a handprint of warmth on his cheek without a window in sight. ah. she’s smiling. but who -- ?

ju startles awake. the blackened mouth of night could be easily mistaken for just another transition into a dream, but he knows it isn’t. night is more familiar to him than day. tingling at his fingertips, the stars greet him and he feels the weight of constellations stretching themselves out over his shoulders, recognising each beat and fall of their chiming dance. but he doesn’t speak.

it’s not the first time he’s dreamt of his parents -- which orphan doesn’t? but ju has xuan and wei, and the shaky memories circling uselessly trying to find a nest in his mind are so fleeting and vague that he rarely pays them much attention. wei has been the parental figure in his life for as long as he can remember, and ju isn’t inclined to obsessing over technicalities. curious, yes, but clipped answers and xuan’s indulgence have given him enough of a picture: his parents are dead. it’s just them. they were kind people.

how hollow it is not to remember something that should be so dear.

ju? “io,” he responds, grateful. she uncurls from his side and scuttles over his back to rest protectively around his neck, like a scarf. they share their warmth. can we go and visit the stars?

she always knows what he needs. the air slices through the shadows, and ju cradles his tangle of blankets around him as he ducks out of the flimsy overhang to see the stars.

“hey,” he whispers. hello, io echoes him, muzzle tilted towards the sky, too. both pairs of eyes are drawn from star to star, and ju tests the heft of their luminescence on his skin. the archer’s shooting shoulder has flared more brilliantly tonight, outshining the pinprick of his knee. and there, his hounds, the whale -- ju breathes them in, the starlight fluid as water cupped against his throat.

to his estimate, dawn is just below the horizon. io agrees. already the feathery nebulae have become difficult to distinguish, the sky smoothed over with an indigo half-light right where it meets the distant ranges. ju fights a shiver, smiling to himself.

“how dashing,” he teases the stars. “but you don’t seem bright enough to avoid disappearing under the glare of the sun. or maybe you’re secretly mooning over that hot ball of fire? oh --” a gust of wind tears past him, and sets his teeth chattering. ju curses. language. he pinches the end of io’s tail, and huffs an apology towards the stars. “it’s cold, sorry. i’ll see you around later.”

padding back under their little shelter, ju wraps himself more securely in his sheets and watches wei’s sleeping face, and the way sunrise breaks over him like watered yolk -- and how long it has been since they last ate eggs, honestly -- between each awkward silhouette of rundown camps just like their own. io keeps quiet, and the light rise-fall of her chest indicates her slip back into slumber. the hovel isn’t the nicest place in the world, but it’s almost a little romantic, ju likes to think: just mismatched, uneven families quilted together in the debris of a district abandoned by civility. one meets strange people and stranger stories here, so it’s really even a little bit beautiful.

when wei stirs, accustomed to the early hours of work, ju taps io awake and rises to look for xuan. they have segmented their home into poky little corners, but ju does appreciate the contrived privacy it affords them. still, he is not all at ease this morning; his dream lingers like sour milk, and he itches to satisfy that familiar, fluttering commotion of need-to-know that has thrown him and his recklessness into trouble more than once. you need to curb that, io warns, just as she always does. ju rolls his eyes, and tastes the sting of her irritation as she tightens her grip around his neck. he ignores her, just as he always does.

hesitating in front of a patched curtain, ju calls through it, “xuan? are you awake?”