It's natural to grieve for the things now past, thinks a young nonbinary man as they arrive in the shimmering city of Novalectrum. It is natural. And yet it isn't, is it? For the things that once were carried an unknown harm, and they are better rid of them.

  And it still hurts. But they pick themself up after their suicide attempt and carry on.

  After he left the hospital following his...accident, Bog realized that he wouldn't ever be safe in the place they'd grown up in. Not from his mother, and not from himself.

  He can't think about it too deeply.

  Bog struggles during his healing, struggles through to the age of majority, takes what jobs they can to save up enough to leave. It takes forever. Soon as he can, he packs the things he'd need to continue doing retro electronics repair, ships what little he could to Novalectrum, and puts the rest on their bike with his cat Mist, heading away from the Swamps for the first time in his life. They're excited and terrified and well, however bad things might be in the big city, he's more prepared to roll the dice on this place than to stay where he's lived all his life.

  The mosquitoes hum, the gators rumble in their hollows. This the last time he'll hear the familiar noises of the Swamps, or at least that's the hope. Still, the short, plump demiguy hesitates a breath or two before mounting their beat-up bike, cyan eyes looking over everything they're leaving behind.

  Great place, if it didn't try to kill him.

  That one moment in the muggy breathless Swamps is all he allows himself before kicking up into the skylane above the boating paths. Mist, harnessed to a little compartment he installed for her, protests with a yowl, before gradually settling. "Better get used to it," he mutters gruffly, "we're gonna be on this for a while."

  The cat doesn't deign to respond.

  Putting his bike on autopilot, Bog checks his messages. There's one from Etienne, which makes them smile a little. They haven't seem him in a while. Characteristically the message is asking about how he's doing, how the move's going. He taps out a quick response then turns his attention back to the unending road ahead.

  Before they left the Swamps, Bog rented a cheap apartment with the money they'd managed to save doing various odd jobs - mostly repairing retro electronics. They'll have to live frugally for a while but they're used to that. Comes with growing up poor.

  It's cold out but during the day they ride with Mist strapped in and the shield down, enjoying the feeling of wind on their face - it's almost like flying.

  They've always wanted to fly; on their own, like a bird, but they don't suppose it'll happen in this lifetime.

  Wishful thinking aside, the demiguy manages to snatch some sleep with the autopilot on and the shield up. They're feeling rested enough to function once they get to their new apartment. The things he shipped are already waiting for them inside the small place - compared to their room back at their mother's house it seems almost spacious. They'll go shopping for a proper bed soon, but for now it'll be the air mattress they brought.

  At one end of the apartment there's a bedroom area separated from the rest of the space by a curtain; in a tiny room walled off from that, there's a shower cubicle and toilet. In the larger portion of the apartment, there's a countertop, sink, mini fridge, and a few cabinets for storage. A curtained bay window at one end looks out on the lower part of this section of Novalectrum, glowing a wild array of colors that dazzles even his artificial eyes.

  Apart from all that things are open and empty, waiting for his belongings. So that's just what Bog starts doing.

  With his necessaries unpacked...well, the place still looks echoingly empty and plain hell, but they're just excited for a place of his own, away from his mother. Away from the place he'd been suffering in for so long.

  Away from the place that made them do this to themself, he thinks, pressing a hand to his scarred chest unconsciously. Beneath their chubby hand lie a complicated series of implants that replaced their heart and they don't know what else after they attempted a few years back. It's been a hell of a road from then till now, but they've survived.

  Bog brings Mist in and turns her loose once there's no danger of a box toppling over on top of her. The gray cat gives a confused meow but soon decides to start exploring this new place. Or more accurately, getting her stink on everything, even though her hair probably covers everything he owns. Eh, she's a cat.

  Her owner hops in the tiny shower cubicle and washes off the sweat and stink of their journey - hours aboard their hoverbike didn't do much for their hygiene, or really for their knees either, young as they still are. Afterwards they feel kind of at loose ends after all the struggle it took to get here. He debates with himself a minute, almost stays in, but finally decides there's no real use moping in their apartment with their cat. They decide to find a local bar to hit up, hoping for a distraction.

  The short, chubby person dresses in a long-sleeved shirt, pants, and their old comfy duster - he's not really looking for company tonight. Won't turn it down if it happens though. It's been a while.

  The demiguy goes to his computer, looks up a list of places, and just kinda picks one at random, one that's not too far from the same level his apartment's on. The AM/PM, hmm. Sounds like a good enough place to hit up for a drink. Worst case, it sucks and they don't go there again.

  Bog sets up Mist's food and water dishes and her litterbox before locking their new home up. They mount their old beat-up hoverbike and kick off, dropping off his apartment's platform and into the sparse traffic that comes through this time of night, lit by the proximity lights and advertisements of this level.

  This isn't a particularly great part of town but it was what he could afford. Still, they make it to the AM/PM without any more trouble than usual - mostly that their bike's aging and they want to replace it due to electrical problems.

  It'll have to wait though.

  Bog parks and turns his attention to the bar ahead. It's lit garishly, like these places usually are, with ads displayed haphazardly via flashing holograms on the outside of the building. It's definitely not one of those fancy bars in Stilt City Etienne likes to tell him about; but it's not a dive club either. It's kinda between those two options. Hopefully that means the drinks are also kind of between those options; not expensive, but not cheap enough to taste like paint thinner either.

  "We'll see," he mutters to himself.

  The gut-rattling thump of a synthclank band greets them when they walk inside. The small club, lit from above in the same garish colors as outside, is built on two levels. The upper one seems to be some kind of dance floor but the bar's on the lower level, complete with android servers. It's a little crowded this time of the evening, but really it's not so bad; room to move at least. And since most of the people crowded in here - men, women, and otherwise, in various states of chemical alteration - are sporting a variety of different implants, he doesn't immediately stand out among them. Which, good. He's had enough of standing out.

  Since he's drinking solo the new import takes a seat at the far corner of the bar, more or less away from everyone else. While the androids serve other customers across the bar, Bog peruses the menu. They have a kind of beer he likes and a brand of vodka that's okay if he wants to get drunk in a hurry. Cocktails, but he tends to stay away from those. The prices aren't too bad. He's kinda used to cheaping out on drinks, but this seems okay.

  Bog orders and pays for a beer, letting it settle before taking a sip. It's pretty all right, bitter and hoppy - fuck, after the long-ass day he's had, alcoholic is really all he needs.

  Hell, that's about all there is to do back in the Swamps, drink enough to forget you're there and hope it's enough to get you through the next day. Here...well, they've chosen to be here. And if it sucks, they'll hit the trail.

  At least that's what he's telling himself when an accented voice beside him speaks up, pitched louder to be heard over the thumping music. "Do you like this cheap shit, or are you just between gigs?"

  Ugh.

  Bog's about to tell the guy to mind his own business. They just got to town, they're kinda tired from the drive, and all they want to do is sit here and have a nice drink to wash away the exhaustion of their journey.

  That is, until they look over - and up.

  The blond man beside them is...pretty tall, although damn near everybody's taller than they are. Paler than them too, like he's one of those that never see the sun. One of his eyes has a metal patch over it, inset with a prosthetic eye glowing about the same color as their own; whatever cost him his eye must've made him need a partial skull reconstruction too. His hair is short, and he's wearing a short beard, maybe a few shades darker than his hair. There's a look in his organic eye - a clear blue - that says that maybe he's seen some shit, just like Bog.

  Still, he has a nice body otherwise and he's dressed in a button down with some slacks. Maybe he's come looking for someone.

  Bog's not opposed.

  Matter of fact, this stranger's pretty good-looking. And his voice is hot and...well Bog thinks that's a faint look of interest on his face at least.

  The demiguy lets himself look the man up and down, liking what he sees. Well he came here wanting to see where the evening took him, right? "Between gigs right now," they admit, nodding at the stool beside them.

  You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

  The blond man responds with a faint smile that Bog has a feeling is about the most emoting he'll do outside the bedroom. "Let me buy you something better then," the man offers, settling on the stool Bog indicated. This close he smells...well, Bog can't tell what kind of cologne he might be wearing but he smells damn good, like pine and musk.

  "Ya know what stranger, that sounds amazing," they tell him with a smile that might or might not be a tiny little bit dazed. Bog nods towards his partly finished drink. "This is fine an' all, but I wouldn't say no to somethin' better."

  The man gives them that funny little smile again - if he had a heart it'd skip a beat - and orders something off the pricier section of the menu for him. For himself the blond orders from a small selection of drinks for people with liver implants, something that glows a faint pink when it arrives. When the server brings their drinks Bog chugs the rest of what they started with, hoping for a little liquid courage. Then he takes the drink the stranger bought him and sips, smacking his lips.

  "S good," Bog drawls, "you have good taste."

  "Why thank you." The blond sips his own drink. It's strong, Bog can smell the booze in it from where he's sitting, but it hardly seems to phase the man. "Do you have a name, stranger?"

  "Go by Bog. You?"

  "Torvald."

  Ah, that'd explain the pretty accent. Bog wants to say that out loud, but he hasn't had quite enough. "Sounds Swedish," is what he settles on.

  Torvald answers with a deep chuckle. "That's because it is."

  One drink and a bit in, it seems funny rather than an embarrassing faux pas. Torvald seems amused by it too, in his own quiet way. "So," the man rumbles, "you know where I'm from; where are you from?"

  "Hellhole...uh, I mean, Hattiesburg Mississippi."

  The blond smiles a little wider. "Hah! Not fond of the place, I take it?"

  "Not particularly, no."

  Both of them apply themselves to their drinks for a few moments, gazing at one another then breaking that gaze to take a sip. Finally Torvald speaks again. "Come here often?"

  "Actually, it's my first night in town," Bog admits.

  "Mm, is that so?"

  "Sure is."

  And so they continue talking, drinking, more talking. Bog finds himself telling Torvald all sorts of things, and, as far as he's able, Torvald reciprocates. He's in some kinda corporate espionage gig he can't really talk about, Swedish expat, lives alone in a slightly better part of town. No lover.

  That's a pity.

  Finally Bog makes the move they've been inching towards since Torvald sat beside him. "Sounds like you could use some company," they say, aiming a suggestive grin upwards. "I'd invite you back to my place, but I ain't done movin' in."

  A large hands finds their knee, squeezing a little. The soft little gasp they give then doesn't make it past the thumping of the music. "Well then, would my place do?" Torvald suggests.

  "Hell yeah!" Bog all but cheers.

  The one-eyed man downs the rest of his drink and so does Bog, attention only half-focused on that act. Hand in hand they go back out into the chilly night and pile into the backseat of the man's car. Bog sends his hoverbike back to his new apartment, still only half-focused on that action.

  Hell if he cares right now.

  Briefly the blond gives his car its flight instructions and flips on the autopilot before turning his laserlike focus back on Bog. Hot hands find his waist, pulling him closer.

  "Give us some sugar, baby," the demiguy growls, putting his own hands on Torvald's muscular shoulders.

  "...some what?"

  Bog huffs a laugh. "What, y'all don't kiss in Sweden?"

  "Oh? Oh."

  Their mouths crush together. It's hard to think, but...goddamn Torvald's a good kisser.

  Bog winds up straddling the man's lap, hands on the seat either side of the man's head while a pair of large hands slide up the backs of their thighs before squeezing.

  "Fuck," they gasp into Torvald's mouth.

  Neither of them gets far enough when the skycar's autopilot interrupts them with a clinical "arriving at destination."

  Bog doesn't get mad very often, and usually only for the big stuff. But he could almost be angry with the autopilot for interrupting.

  Torvald gives a quiet chuckle at his annoyance. "Patience, you'll get what you want soon enough."

  "...sorry. It's just been a while, is all."

  The blond squeezes him again. "That's a shame."

  Together they both pile out of Torvald's car into the chilly air, down the sidewalk, into the man's apartment. His home seems kinda sparse, much as Bog cares with his hands all over them.

  Matters proceed quickly then, ending with them twined together, panting in bed. Afterwards they clean up a little. Torvald surprises him by asking him to spend the night; they surprise themself by agreeing. Maybe they're a little touch starved. Maybe the way Torvald treated them during the act makes them want to stay.

  Maybe they stay just to spite their mother.

  Together the pair settle back down in bed, Bog's back to Torvald's front. Casually the man drapes an arm over their body, stroking down their pudgy belly, over their thighs. They don't quite know where to go from here, but cuddling is always nice.

  "'M surprised you didn't ask me about my chest, actually," Bog mutters, though it's not something they talk about readily; or really at all. "It's what everyone else does."

  "Well, in case you haven't noticed I've quite a number of implants myself."

  Bog wonders but does not ask whether the implants and the scars he spotted during the act have impacted Torvald's ability to find someone. The fact that he picked them out of all the other people in the bar - one of the ones most obviously implanted - would kinda prove that. Except the care with which the man treated them isn't faked.

  Hell, he's a puzzle to them but he's good in bed, and even just that would make Bog want to stick around. But something about him...

  Bog falls asleep happily to that thought. And boy is it nice to not have to fall asleep alone.

  The next morning they have a little encore. And since neither of them has anywhere to be, a leisurely shower together. Torvald even makes them breakfast, eggs and toast.

  While they're eating, the man looks at them contemplatively, eyes half-lidded - an interesting effect with the one prosthetic.

  "Look like yer gonna make a proposition, honey."

  "Heh."

  Bog reaches over to cup the man's cheek; he leans in a little. His beard is rough against their palm and they just savor the feeling for a breath. "Look, I had a good time - a real good time," he begins. "If you wanna get together again, I'd..."

  He has so much trouble voicing his real feelings sometimes. But he takes a deep breath and manages to keep going. "What I'm tryin' to say is, I wouldn't mind gettin' together again. If you want."

  Torvald raises a hand to cover his own, turns his head to kiss Bog's palm. "I would love that," he says, almost shyly.

  Bog smiles, thinking maybe the big city ain't so bad after all.