The boy with the red beanie arrives late.

The door bangs shut behind him and everyone turns in their seats to stare with equal parts curiosity and annoyance. From her spot at the front of the hall, the English professor sends him an impatient glare. He gives her a wave that's meant to be apologetic but instead looks blasé, and snags the open seat beside me. I watch as he drapes himself over the desk, chin tucked in the crook of his elbow, one knee bouncing furiously under the desk.

There's grass stains on his jeans and pine needles tangled in his brown curls and a smear of dirt on his cheek. I'd seen him on my rush to class, emerging from the woods, looking like he'd tripped and tumbled down a hill. He'd noticed me and waved. The right thing to do would have been to wave back, or offer to help, or let him know that a first year English class was going to start soon and if he was in it, to hurry. Instead, I'd been startled enough by his gesture to break eye contact and walk away without a second glance, embarrassed that he'd caught me staring.

I lean back in my seat, listening to the professor go over course attendance policy. I'd chosen this spot because of its location in the back corner of the lecture hall. If I was lucky, I could get the whole row to myself and not have to worry about the cramped seats and lack of room. Instead, I am hyper-aware of another person sitting next to me, and overly conscious of keeping my arms tucked in and out of his space. It is a little annoying that his right elbow goes over the edge of his desk and onto mine. I inch my notebook away and stare pointedly at his arm, but he doesn't notice. Then I consider poking him with my pen and decide against it.

The professor continues outlining her grading scheme. She mentions several major essays before she adds, "We will also have in-class discussions and partnered assignments."

My stomach fills with uneasy butterflies. I've never been fond of group projects, and I don't look forward to the inevitable search for a partner. The professor continues, ignoring the murmuring that follows her statement, "On that note, I'd like you to turn to your neighbor and introduce yourselves, then share your favorite literary quote. You have five minutes."

I try to project my silent displeasure to the professor telepathically, but she either never receives the message or is ignoring my despairing gaze. The butterflies in my stomach crawl up to my throat and I try to swallow them down as best I can.

I glance sideways and see that the boy with the beanie is looking at me. He straightens and gives a sheepish grin, then sticks out his hand. There are band-aids with little comic-strip style designs wrapped around his fingers, curled around the joint and covering the nail. I wonder if he'd gotten those injuries this morning and feel a little worse that I hadn't approached him to help.

"I'm Sean," he says. A corner of his mouth dimples when he smiles. "I think I saw you this morning? I recognize the white hair."

I lift a hand to my hair, momentarily confused, but then I realize what he's talking about. I had dyed my hair platinum blond a couple days before coming to school. Seeing myself in the mirror with white hair still comes as a shock.

"Oh — right," I mutter, and shake his hand. "I'm Finn."

"Nice to meet you," Sean says. "Are you in first year?"

"Yes, I —"

"Same!" Sean grins, then his smile wavers. "Oh, sorry, were you going to —"

"No, it's fine, I —"

"I didn't mean to —"

"I —"

"I'm sorry," he apologizes again. He makes a 'go ahead' gesture with his hands, clamping his lips together and waiting for me to continue. His expression is so mortified and bashful that I find myself laughing.

"It's okay," I say. The butterflies in my throat dissipate like fogged breath into winter air, and I can breathe a bit easier. I ask, "What's your favorite literary quote?"

"'Carpe Diem. Seize the day, boys.'" Sean says immediately. "From Dead Poet's Society." Then he frowns. "Wait. That's a movie, not a piece of literature. Uh, give me a moment to think. What's your favorite quote?"

I say the first one that comes to mind. "'We are such stuff as dreams are made on'," I quote, "'And our little life is rounded with sleep.'"

Sean gives an approving nod. "The Tempest," he notes, his brown eyes thoughtful. "Shakespeare."

My eyebrows go up in surprise. "Yeah," I say, and he smiles. "How did you —"

"I like learning quotes," Sean says, a little sheepishly, "That one's one of my favorites. Oh, here's my literary quote. From Shakespeare's Macbeth." He takes in a breath, then pronounces in a most indignant voice, "'What, you egg?'"

I let out a bark of laughter which I quickly smother when a cluster of students turns to stare. Sean looks very pleased with himself. It's been a while since the last time I truly laughed, yet he's managed to make me laugh twice within minutes of meeting him. I am simultaneously perplexed and intrigued at how easily he connects with people.

A tapping sound fills the room as the professor brings our attention back to the front, and I turn to face her as she resumes her lecture. I take dutiful notes, scribbling at the edges when I find it a little more difficult to focus. A graphite sketch forms in the margin, my pencil shading in the hollowed eye sockets and cheeks of a deer skull. I alternate between note-taking and drawing, adding black horns to the skull, then small flowers to surround it. There's a rustle of papers as class ends and students pack up their bags to head to their next class. I quickly close my notebook and shove it into my bag.

Sean slings his backpack over one shoulder and looks at me. "Would you like to be partners for the assignments?" he asks. His knee is bouncing again. "That is, if you don't have one already."

"Um, sure," I reply. I don't know anyone else in the room, and I can't bring myself to say no. His face brightens with a broad grin.

"Okay," Sean says, obviously relieved. He pulls out a small notebook and pen, then flips to a page, scribbling furiously. "Um, here's my phone number so we can contact each other. We should meet up to work on the assignment at some point." He tears out the page and hands it to me. I take it, glancing down at the scrawled ink numbers. Sean's handwriting is one step above chicken scratch.

"Just send me a text. I'll see you next class?" he asks. The way he says it makes it sound like a promise. I fold the paper with his number and tuck it into my pocket carefully.

"Yeah," I reply. "I'll see you next class."

Sean smiles and gives a brief wave as he turns around. I realize then what the strange feeling I'd had about him was.

Sean exits the row and heads up the steps and out the lecture room doors. My eyes follow his footsteps and the flowers that bloom where his feet fall, budding bouquets of snowdrops and forget-me-nots and marigolds and clover. I lean down to touch a sky blue forget-me-not, its petals soft against my fingers, and the blossom shivers at my touch. I blink once, and —

It disappears. My gaze retraces Sean's steps, searching for flowers. Not a single blossom lies in sight. The floor is as flat and smooth as it was before. The professor walks by and casts me a curious glance before she leaves the classroom. I am alone with only silence and puzzlement to keep me company.

I double-check that I have the paper with Sean's number, then exit the room, unsure as to what emotion is coursing through my veins. I'm curious and wary and delighted and afraid, the mixture tumultuous in my chest. I have a thousand questions and no answers.

I wonder if Sean is like me.

~*~

That night, I dream of flowers.

I am in a vast meadow full of blossoms of every size and shape and color. If I wanted to find all the flowers in the world, they would be here. Poppies and bluebells thrive among sunflowers and lilies, the field a living painter's palette. Growing among the flowers are blades of golden grass, and when the breeze blows, they sigh against each other like waves on an ocean shore. Birds chirp from their hidden perches in the field and the wind sings in the trees beyond. A thousand aromas mingle in the air, sweet as roses and sharp as overripe fruit. I step forward and a swarm of butterflies rises from the field, their iridescent wings battering my cheek.My arms raise to shield my face and I watch as they flutter into the endless blue sky above.

I love this colorful landscape, so different from my usual monochrome dreams, and yet, I can't get rid of the unsettled, suffocating feeling in my chest. The scents are so thick that I can taste them like a layer on my tongue, and the grass and wind murmur constantly, the sound like hundreds of voices whispering at once. It is discomfiting when paired with the glamorous scenery.

A creature pops out from the grass and turns to look at me with mischievous yellow eyes. It's shaped like a fox, but its legs are long-limbed and graceful as a deer's. Pronged horns sit beside its ears, carved with intricate spiraling patterns that seem to shift with every movement. Its fur is a burning red-gold that fades to a dark coffee color at each of its paws. Two tails wag behind it, bushy and bright.

As I stare, its horns branch out like antlers, growing like tree limbs in fast-forward, leaves and flowers sprouting along the length. When the creature notices it has my attention, it grins, exposing pearly, pointed teeth.

"Oh," it says, "You're not supposed to be here."

"What is this place?" I ask, but my question is overshadowed by the creature's laughter. At least, I think it's laughter. It is a sound like a hyena yipping, or a fox shrieking, or a crane calling.

"Oh, no. I don't give answers for free," it says. I watch as it dances among the flowers, prancing in a circle around me, sending petals and birds and butterflies scattering into the air. "Entertain me, human."

"Entertain you?" I echo, dumbfounded.

"Yes, entertain. Dance, jest, sing, I don't care." It rolls its golden eyes at me before diving into the flowers. "I'll give you three seconds to come up with something."

"I'm not going to entertain you," I reply, frowning.

The creature pops its head out of the grass. "Why ever not?" it asks.

"I don't like performing on principle."

"What an absolutely boring individual you are," it hums. "No answer for you, then, though you already have it."

"What?"

"You should leave," the creature notes, traipsing around me once more. "I have more important matters to attend to than cowards and dull, worthless boys."

"That's not fair," I mumble, trying not to show how its words twist and root in my chest.

"Is anything?" Its harsh laughter grates on my ears. "Now, go. You're no longer amusing."

A flock of sparrows swoops in and circles me in a storm of blue and orange feathers that pulls me off the ground. I panic, swatting at the birds to drive them away, but there are too many. The birds continues to rise, pulling me with them, and I'm helpless as I watch the landscape spread out below me. In one moment, I am cushioned by wings and feathers, and in the next, I am falling through empty air. Mingled with the whistling wind is the fox-creature's cacophonous laughter.

The ground rushes up to meet me. I close my eyes and wait for the inevitable.

~*~

Another chapter done aaand we have Finn! What sorts of questions are you left with after this chapter? What do you think about the dream creature?

Word Count: 2046