chapter three: i'm wishing

There's an instant shift in temperature as Branch crosses the threshold from Poppy's house into his own. The air is thinner, less cozy compared to hers. Of course, his upper level is sparse—only a small mudroom and his now broken Door. Life, he thinks, does not burst from the seams here, no overwhelming quirky characteristics to demand attention like her house.

Just a cold and dark space, carved into a mountain, hidden—tucked away— his—

Poppy wiggles in his arms and it strikes him then, with stunned realization, that he's still holding her. How he forgot, he's not quite sure, but he did. Bashfully, he sets her down, ducking his head as he mumbles a quiet apology. Thank God he doesn't unceremoniously drop her while panic seizes control of his muscles. Branch ignores the tingling sensation at her touch, electricity in her fingertips that skim down bare chest and arms.

"Thanks," she whispers.

The sound snags in the moment, cut off with soft "s" on a jagged edge. Reality fingers its way from the haze, catching the corners of past dreams and tearing them apart. It pricks at him under his sternum, under the mark, and under his heart. Sharp nails sting, leaving messages of is this really right?

(Yes, his heart says. Yes, it affirms, the mind just has to catch up a bit .)

They lock eyes, a blush blooming across his neck and face much like the sun that lays over his heart. His heart skips a beat as his mind cyclones with chaos. Awkwardness slowly creeps over them as Poppy gives him a weak smile and plays with the end of her hair. Neither says anything, both suspended in this moment, before Branch looks away first.

He swallows words he won't say—doesn't know how to say, can't form them with the tip of his tongue to sound off the back of his teeth. A mouth made useless as both heart and mind war for dominance of the situation, as dreams and reality battle to take precedence.

The air stills with silence, pulled taut between them. No one gave him the talk, you see, gave no advice for future reference in case he became some witch's familiar. There was no warning about what to do when you wake up in the bed of a childhood friend's and find out that you're bonded to her. That you share her magic.

That you are now a part of her. An anchor, a siphon, an experience that tethers her to living rather than death.

How is he supposed to attempt a conversation when that happens? When the impossible truth exists as he exists hits him. That this is real and the world isn't cozy and warm as her house because she's there and she's beautiful and—

Poppy taps his shoulder. "Branch?"

He blinks, fading outlines reconfigure the world into focus. Poppy stares at him, concern in the pressure of her touch. A jolt of electricity spirals from the warmth of her hand into his bones.

She edges closer, wearing a brave smile. "Hey, we're gonna be okay. I know it."

Her words are like a moving spell, cast with thoughtfulness and a heart full of hope. There's conviction in the way she omits I think or I believe, her understood I know ringing with a positive unknown.

Which is always better than a negative, deadly, and disastrous unknown.

Much better.

Branch inhales through his nose, keeps the air trapped in his lungs, before slowly exhaling. Poppy rolls her eyes with apparent amusement, stiff shoulders softening as her arms hang at her sides. She curls one shoulder into a stretch and dramatically rolls her other arm out then doing the same to another side. Her palm remains outstretched towards him, her fingers beckoning.

"Shall we?"

And just like that, the world swoons into motion, caught in her currents as her smile twinkles brightly.

Branch scoffs and pushes her hand away, turning on his heel towards the front door, eyes set on a dark green pullover on a peg. Time speeds up with him, the frozen temperature that had encapsulated the mudroom warming as seconds tick.

He grabs the hoodie and shoves himself into it, laughing at himself for finally being properly decent for the first time since he woke up. Truly, frilly pink robes do not count.

Tying his shoes, he gestures for Poppy to follow. "C'mon, let's put this whole magical steroid claim to the test."

Poppy snorts and sticks her hands in her sweatpants pockets, her wand poking out from the black fabric. "Yeah," she says, jutting a thumb behind her, "like our broken doors aren't enough proof."

"I'm gonna blame Calpurnia. She's the culprit."

Poppy gasps and leaps to stand in front of him, her expression twisted with scandal. "How dare," she accuses. "You take that back right now!"

She braces herself in front of the door, putting all of her weight against it.

Branch cocks a brow and uses an arm to prop himself on the frame. "Oh, what are you gonna do? Scrapbook me into apologizing? " he taunts, leaning forward.

She pouts and digs her heels in the ground. She raises her chin up high, her lips pressed flat together. "Hey! Just so—" she starts to rant, but—

—she never gets to finish, Branch steps in closer and turns the door handle. What he does not account for is that opening the door behind her requires that he nearly fold himself over her, her shoulder digging into his chest. She ceases movement, surprises lingering in the air, curling delicately into his nostrils until he feels like sneezing. (It reminds him of campfire smoke.)

Poppy yelps as the door gives way and she missteps backward, arms thrown out to steady herself. She takes a deep breath and runs her fingers through her bangs, haphazardly combing them to the side. Another breath and she composes herself, then glares at Branch.

"Really?" She motions, her hand fluttering between them. "Was that necessary?"

Branch shrugs, wearing a wide pleased smile. "Totally."

Poppy shakes her head, shaking him off as she inspects his front yard.

"I've never been here in the morning," she says, awe thick in her voice.

Branch ambles towards her, with the sun that shifting through tall pines. Streams of light speckle soft ground, dewy from a peaceful night. Faint forest sounds sing in the distance, from birdsongs to babbling mountain air chills his lungs in the way it always does, this moment like hundreds of others.

Only...only more memorable and striking when Poppy faces towards him, her face glowing with golden sunlight as her halo. He is reminded of dreams again, of longing, of hope—

He digs his nails in his palms to stop himself from reaching out to her.

"So, magic, right?"

Poppy blinks, wonderment fading. Nodding, she stands straighter, hands clasped behind her back and inspect him. "But I didn't see you grab a wand?"

Branch pauses, his eyes towards the ground, lost in brief thought. The answer is actually caught under his shoe, rolls under his sole with blaring obviousness. He laughs to himself as he bends down and picks it up, and waggles it from side to side.

"Look, I found a branch. This'll do."

Poppy quirks her brows together in confusion for a moment, then slaps her palm to her forehead. "No, no! No branches!" she yells, but there's a tinge of laughter to her voice.

He shrugs, feeling proud. "But I'm a Branch."

She puts her hands on her hips and sighs."You know, you're always serious about the stupidest things and then you're silly about the important things. C'mon, Branch. Go get a real wand and we'll talk. Don't you remember our Doors? They've blown off the darn hinges!"

He rolls his eyes as he tosses the faux-wand away and heads back into his house.

(The one time he makes a joke and she doesn't laugh. He pretends it doesn't bother him, but it kinda does. In that stupid way that only Poppy can bother him.)

(He doesn't see is that when turns to he leaves, she smiles, giggling quietly to herself. Her heart feels warm in the mountain chill, the heat traveling through her veins and keeps the cold away)

He does have...one wand, the thinks. One wand at least that seems to fit Poppy's bill of extreme importance. It was made by the best wand maker he ever knew. The only one who mattered in his opinion.

It's in the back of his closet, next to photo albums and—

There's a tug and he's turned promptly around, Poppy's face greeting him with an exasperated and weary grin.

"Poppy? I thought you told me—"

She cuts him off. "We can use Calpurnia again. I'll teach you."

He looks up the heavens and sighs. "Poppy, I'm serious—"

"And I'm serious too," she says. She squeezes his hand. "Look, trust me. We're outside. Let's see what happens. Thought you were always crazy prepared," she taunts.

Pink eyes bore into blue until he looks away first, exhaustion rolling off him "Yeah, sure. Whatever."

Poppy perks up then, a dazzling grin warm and kind. She steps forward, her wand clasped lovingly in her hand.

"But Branch?"

He stills and looks over his shoulder. "Yes?"

"Promise me that you'll make a wand, okay? You might just need it."

He clicks his tongue. "Yeah, I promise, Poppy."

She gives him a soft smile. "Thank you."

The mark on his chest hums with contentment, right next to his heartbeat. Branch feels the gentle lull of comfort settle into place as he turns around and flexes his fingers. Poppy gives him her wand for the second time this morning and he carefully takes it, knowing better now than to underestimate it.

"What?" he starts, hesitant to have a repeat of earlier. "What do I need to do?"

Poppy giggles as she joins him at his side. "What can you always do? What's as easy as breathing? Let's try that."

Branch ponders for a moment and he shrugs. "Grow trees."

"...grow? Trees?"

He gestures around them, his expression completely nonchalant. "Yeah, did ya think that Mother Nature grew all these?"

"You and your wood, I swear."

They both laugh and then freeze.

Poppy's face is bright red. "Not your "wood" per se. Not like you talk about your dick all the time! You don't talk about it at all! Didn't even feel it this morning! And what I mean is that I'm sure it's great—"

Branch stares at her, mouth gaping. "Oh my god, why is your mind always in the gutter?"

"Why is yours?"

"You're the one who just said you think my dick is great!"

"You know, most men would find that to be a compliment!"

"Why are we friends?" Branch asks. "What did I do in a past life to be verbally assaulted this way?"

"Probably murdered someone, man."

"Gee. Thanks."

She smiles. "You're welcome! Now grow some trees!"

Branch readies himself, about to start the spell when he looks over at Poppy and asks. "Before I do something stupid. Again. Do you have any tips?"

"Think happy thoughts! Happiness is important!"

"I don't do happy," he deadpans.

Poppy clicks her tongue, cocking her hip to the side. "Just try, Branch. Be happy for one moment in your life. Pretend really hard or—or channel me! Channel your own Poppy Power!"

Branch narrows his eyes. "No. No Poppy Power. I'm trying not to, I don't know, die !"

Poppy groans and scoffs. "Fine, Mr. Sourpants. Just. Happy things then."

He sighs and closes his eyes.

Happy things, Poppy said. Happy things like his grandma's baking on warm sunny afternoons. He's barely able to see over the counter, but he grins to himself watching the cookies cool on the rack.

Someone brushes the top of his head and Grandma Rosie smiles at him, taking his little hand in hers. The texture of her palm is rough, but warm, a place to call home.

She summons a tree straight from the ground and Branch stands in wonder at a large sprouting rowan tree with leaves and branches that go on forever. Little red fruits pepper the green and his grandmother snaps off a branch she thought good enough, beginning her work right away.

(He wasn't lying. He does have one, the best wand, the only wand worth having—)

"A rowan wand is best for complicated protection spells blessed by happy trolls—for good luck," his grandmother says, "because who is more positive than a troll?"

Love circles around him as she hums a song as old as the infinite tree rings of their family. Afternoon spring sun dapples through leaves and he can't tell if the warmth is from the rays or his grandma. Branch snuggles closer, drifting off to sleep, the only sound is Grandma Rosie whittling his new wand for when he's old enough—

Happy things, Poppy said. Happy things, happy things, happy things, but—it's hard to stay happy when she never gets to see him cast his first spell, is not at his side when he enters the academy, not with him when his hands become calloused like hers and—

His eyes snap open, breath ragged in his chest.

Poppy is at his side in an instant. "Branch?"

He shakes his head. "I—I—" his mouth is dry, his heart breaking all over again. "I can't do this. No."

Her hand is an anchor on his back, tethering him to now. "No? No what?"

He jerks away from her touch. "This. Poppy. Fucking this."

"I—"

He whirls on her. "I just—," he starts, his mouth pulled in an odd smile. He grabs at his hair.

"Branch, look at me."

He shakes his head and Poppy braves forward.

"Poppy, this isn't right. You know this isn't right. I can't. I can't be your familiar. No."

She swallows. "No?"

"No, Poppy. I can't. This is insane. I know this morning has been up and down, but no. I can't."

Poppy stares at him for a moment, her mouth in trembling fragile line. He knows what his means to her, but he can't. He can't, can't, can't, can't be the happy things she deserves when he isn't even able to think back on happy memories.

There's no way he's stable enough to protect her, to help her, to—

"I'll break the bond," she says, her voice low. "I'll ask my dad when he comes home tomorrow. Promise." Her voice shakes and Branch's heart twists. "But-but!" She says, getting louder. "You're still my familiar right now and we have to do this. I'll figure out how to end this contract, but for now, you're still mine."

He swallows. "Yours?"

She nods, concern peeking through a neutral expression "Yes, mine. And—and we still have to test your magic. I'm sorry, bud. No other way."

"But happy things, Poppy," he whispers harshly. "You don't—"

She grabs his face in two hands and drags her down to look at him. The world stops moving. "It's been a long morning. I know. I can feel it too. Everything is fucked up, but I will help you, I promise."

He bites a sound at the back of his throat.

(How is she? How can she? Be so perfect, be so kind, be so wonderful?)

Poppy gives him a wane smile. "It's gonna be okay. I'm here. Focus on me, can you do that?"

He mutely nods as his reply.

Branch closes his eyes, gripping the wand. Poppy strokes her thumbs on the apples of his cheeks. The warmth in her hands binds him to this moment, the scent of strawberries and cookies and Poppy. She loves him. This is fact. She's not mad at him. This is also fact.

Poppy is a blessed thing, Branch realizes, his heart swimming with adoration, lost in childhood laughter and hugs. He's known her forever it seems. Since a little girl rounded a tree and crashed right into him when she was no more than three.

He chases after memories of her instead, the few between bright moments that speckled monotone gray. The song in her voice, the joy in her smile, the endearing calm of her friendship and—

—he's a teenager when he realizes it, one day after school. The world tinges orange with fading afternoon autumn sunlight drifting slowly down the horizon. The two walk side by side, Poppy endlessly chattering about the day's events. A mundane activity repeated countlessly before in their friendship.

It's a moment when she pauses, the scuffle of her footsteps silencing as she notices a stray leaf in her hair. Her pink eyes widen and in the sun, they look to be rimmed with violet with glittering gold specks. She giggles to herself as brushes it away and continues telling her story, her smile mirror a gorgeous golden sun.

But it is the after a moment that his heart skips, it thuds, it rams against his chest as something inside shifts. It is the moment after where he realizes that Poppy is breathtaking, her voice a gentle constant, a narrator for their prolonged relationship. A feeling he can't name, but the letters dance upon the tip of his tongue, forming a three-word phrase.

Poppy will later catch him staring and will question, but he will refuse to tell her anything. Unwilling to voice his realization out loud, unable to breathe that truth in the world. Words have magic, he knows, but he's not ready to see what power those exact words can produce just yet.

But now—

Things are different, he thinks when he hears her gasp. He can say he loves her in a way that she loves him too. A friendship that is worth something more than she'll ever know. A lifeline for him when things aren't going according to plan.

Happy things, Poppy said, and Branch doesn't think anything makes him happier than Poppy's friendship.

He takes a deep breath, letting the magic flow out of him. From the middle of his heart to the tip of the wand, he releases the very happiness Poppy requested. The magic rushes like an endless roaring river, sweeping away the despair that rooted itself in his stomach. Once satisfied, Branch slowly opens his eyes, he's greeted by a scent of lavender, signifying Poppy's relief. And more campfire smoke, meaning her surprise.

"Hey, that wasn't so bad, was it?" she whispers.

Branch's heart whirlwinds between conflicting emotions: fear, love, hope, terror. A never-ending cycle that presses down upon his chest. For now, though, he's caught between a shaded ombre of fear, love, and hope.

He shrugs, though looking over her shoulder, he furrows his brows in confusion. "I don't—there are no trees?"

Poppy sends her eyes downwards, her cheeks a bit pink. "No, no trees, but maybe…"

He follows her line of sight and sucks in a breath.

True, there are no trees. But that does not mean he didn't do anything, for at their feet, sprawling across his yard, over the top of his house, on rocks and up trees are poppies. For miles in every direction. Bright red poppies swaying in a gentle morning breeze.

His face turns just as red.

(Oh. My. God. Can he not? Just. Oh god.)

"Got something on your mind, bud?"

Denial is instant. "Nope."

New plan: time to curl up and die. That's it. Today's death will be by his own hand. No need to let Poppy stain hers.

Poppy wilts and takes a step back, her mouth trembling again. Her fingers dig into her biceps, hugging herself close. His quick dismissal echoes his rejection and space between the two of them is not as comfortable as they were children now.

And here the whirlwind cycles to be more of fear, love, and terror instead. Hope tossed to the side for there is no hope, he's already said no. She already made a promise. Words have magic, Branch knows.

The morning weighs on him as Poppy gazes off into the distance. "The flowers are beautiful," she says, her voice barely above a whisper. "Thank you for trying."

Calpurnia burns in his hand and he offers it. "Of course."

Poppy takes it, but their fingers do not touch. Does that? Does that mean something? He squashes down the need for wanting an answer.

Poppy rolls her wand in her hand. Almost as if she's decided something. There's an outline of determination at her edges, something dangerous, something unknown. She then gives him a bright grin with glowing fanfare. The world smells of citrus. "Well, I'll ask my Dad tomorrow about the bond, okay?"

Branch frowns. "Okay."

She touches his cheek, happiness bathing her in soft pink. Branch feels completely at ease. This is normal. Completely normal.

(No, not really. This is far from normal.)

This...this is not right, he knows. Something is off, but he can't pin just what—the tension rested in between his shoulder blades, knotting his heart, caught in his throat dissolve into nothingness. All his fears melt away, all his insecurities disappear in the wind.

Peace sinks into his skin from Poppy's voice. "Thanks again for being an amazing friend, Branch. I mean it."

"Anytime, Poppy," he slurs.

His knees buckle and Poppy gently helps him sit on the ground. She lays him down so that all he can see is the bright blue sky, puffy clouds painted across the expanse. Her knuckles graze his cheek and for a moment his world is engulfed pink.

"Sleep," she sings. "You've had a long morning. Dream good things."

Branch smiles wide, his body feeling languid almost like he was in a bath. Sunshine beats down on him as Poppy's voice sends tranquility down his spine to his fingertips. She sings a song in a language he doesn't know, but it's beautiful.

The edges of the world became dark as his eyelids become heavy, trying to chase glimpses of Poppy. The world melts away when darkness greets him like an old friend as poppy petals blanket him.

He dreams of Poppy again.

Pressure pricks behind her left eye, traveling up the slope of her forehead. It flows down the fissures of her skull, slides along the cracks before converging on her second vertebra. And yet, she still smiles, refusing to look weary, refusing to admit defeat to shining lights and noisy atmosphere. Bright lights and noise go hand in hand with event planning after all.

She shouldn't have…she shouldn't have done that, to Branch, she knows. She shouldn't have manipulated him. But—but, there had been another breakdown coming, another moment wherein the longer she stayed, the more surely he would have shattered.

(Or maybe she would have shattered.)

No, Poppy. I can't, he said. This is insane.

And maybe because she's been delusional her whole goddamn life, but maybe—maybe—she had hoped, she had hoped that things would be okay. He seemed okay at first! Sure, there was some panicking, but who wouldn't panic just for a moment?

Maybe her house was like a dream. A liminal space where everything made sense because it was ruled by nonsense. The joy in her chest is so painful, his mark a guilty pleasure on her skin. God, if only, couldn't she just—

(She did it once, right? Made him bend to her will. It was so easy. She's a siren witch. She does it all the time. To make people happy. Make them feel good—)

She digs the heel of her palm into her eye to relieve the pressure. No, she can't. She will, she thinks with a heavy heart, set Branch free. Pumping a crowd with endorphins is not the same as brainwashing someone.

Wow, it truly has been a long morning if this is how far she's sunk.

(There will be times, Poppy dear, where you'll want to use your powers for the wrong sort of thing. That's normal, to want, sometimes. Everyone wants to be in control and everyone sometimes thinks about controlling others, but the real test of your character is how you won't take the easy route.

You're a good girl with a loving heart, honey. You could destroy cities and force people to bend to your will, but you won't. I know that. You'd rather just hug them to death.)

She lets out a breathy laugh. If only her mom could see her now.

She sighs and tries to focus in on the conversation again, King Gristle babbling something about wing-dingles or hot wings. Close enough.

"So, yeah. Pizza."

Poppy blinks. "Pizza?"

"Yes!" the young King enthuses. "We should have pizza at the gala!"

Poppy maintains a civil smile. "You want pizza at your gala?"

He shrugs, dismissing her with a flap of his hand. "Well, we Bergans are salty food lovers! And pizza is a gift from the sky above."

King Gristle says it with such conviction that Poppy struggles to reply. Words refuse to come out of her mouth, her lips twisting in disagreement, but what is she to say?

A tall and imposing woman with the famous Bergan purple shift to her skin stands behind the king. She places her hands on the king's shoulders, much like how a guardian would to a young charge.

"Oh my, King Gristle," the woman coos. "How about you leave the menu to me? Your most beloved Chef, correct?"

The king blinks then nods in agreement. "Yes," he says. "I guess that would be best."

The Royal Chef smiles, her crooked teeth both alarming, yet somehow endearing. That's the thing about Bergans, they're mostly human and somewhat not. A bit of something ghoulish in them. Not all monsters bite though.

Poppy extends her hand, relying on friendliness etched into her muscle memory. Even when she's down, she can't help but be incandescent. "Poppy King, ma'am. The King's professional event planner for the upcoming New Year's Gala. I look forward to working with you."

The older woman directs her attention towards Poppy and her smile stretches wider. "Ah yes," she starts. Her fingers wrap around Poppy's, cold to the touch. "Likewise, Miss King. You may address me as Chef if you'd like. The Royal Chef is such a mouthful after all," she laughs.

Poppy laughs too, a silent alarm bell ringing that things aren't just right, but she's not sure where exactly.

Instead, she focuses on the task at hand and firmly shakes the woman's hand. "Of course, Chef."

King Gristle's glance shifts between the two women, seemingly pleased with this new arrangement. It's the mostly kingly Poppy has seen him. Arms crossed and assessing the situation. His socks with sandals combo do little for his royal image.

If only the twins could get their hands on his questionable fashion habits.

A guard catches the King's attention, leaving Poppy and Chef alone. Without the buffer of the king, Poppy is left completely open to Chef's examinations, her eyes razor sharps as she judges Poppy from head to toe.

"Got yourself a familiar, eh?"

Poppy stiffens, panic prickling her skin.

Chef chuckles. "I'm a chef after all," she says. "The air doesn't taste like chaos the way it usually does with you siren-types."

Poppy exhales a painful breath. "Yeah. This morning actually."

Chef's lips curl into an overly friendly smile. "Don't worry, dear. Your secret will be safe with me."

Poppy weakly nods, mumbling her thanks.

The world is dark, shaded only by various of blacks and grays. Neither sun nor moon rests simultaneously in the sky, the world above bare of stars too. Time stands still as Poppy stands at the world's edge.

Branch can't breathe, his heart thundering in his chest. No words come out of his mouth and no matter how hard he tries to move, he doesn't get closer to her. Life pulses in every fiber of his being, but he stays frozen.

Poppy, despite the grey purveying the dreamscape, remains a gentle muted pink. She turns towards him, a smile on her face and opens her arms wide. Almost as if she's waiting for a hug, for him, for something he can't give.

But Branch still does not get closer, the distance between them spanning miles.

She nods her head and speaks, her words echoing across the expanse.

You'll be okay, she says.

She arcs backward into an abyss.

Branch jolts away, breath ragged as he grips the sheets. He didn't fall, he realizes. He didn't fall, his body firmly planted in his bed and—

The edges of his dreams catch him, his heart blazing under his ribs, watching Poppy disappear over the cliffside. Her smile a gleaming gem in her unspoken goodbye, no fare thee well, no—no persistent stubbornness clinging to the moment as she always does. A beat of silence and then nothing but adrenaline pumping in his veins as the world becomes more awake.

He glances at his alarm clock. It's well close to midnight, a foggy day forgotten as he tries to recall everything.

Did he—did he just fall asleep? Had he just been at the Registrar hours before and why—why is he so warm?

Looking down, he sees that he's in his green hoodie—something he never wears to bed and starts to tug at it, discovering he's not wearing a shirt as well. There's the fogginess of dreaming, of always dreaming of someone missing and longing and wishing and—it comes like a tidal wave. The dreaminess recedes into ocean waves as the clashing moment of reality comes into play and both worlds converge in a singular moment of ringing clarity.

He awoke in Poppy's bed this morning, awoke from a dream of a different dream that began in his heart of hearts and— He pulls himself out the sweatshirt and claws at his chest, a blooming pink sun glowing softly in the dim bedroom. A wish spoken out loud, made from dreams, that had lead to a mark upon his actual heart. A glowing sun signifying a singular connection to the one he holds dear.

(He's forgetting to breathe again. He always forgets to breathe when Poppy is concerned.)

There were first kisses, in real life and in dreams. She kissed him as if he was precious, as if he was worth it, as if he were the answer to her questions. Held him close, stroked his cheeks, kissed him, kissed him, kissed him.

There was magic, awesome power at his fingertips. His thoughts echo the songs of happy things, of Poppy. Of a heart of hearts and happiness and blessed things and memories and—

Poppies.

Branch jumps out of bed and races towards the ground floor, climbing stairs two at a time. A wave of memories, of moments, of jumbled dreams and distorted reality surge after him as he tears out the front door. Guided by moonlight, the air sings with magic. A charming hum of joy exuding from root to petal for miles in every direction.

The ocean waves shifts into a sea of red flowers, of adoration, screaming for attention at his feet.

Branch squats, digging his hands into his hair.

"Holy. Fuck."

He remembers the sky, the song luring him to sleep and dreams and—there's pressure building behind his right eye and he can't breathe again because of Poppy. It's always Poppy. In her stupid ways and stupider talents and she drags him, sucks him into her vortex and—

Poppy didn't need to put a spell on him. Her every gesture, each smile, her entire being from the top of her head to the tips of her toes is witchcraft enough.

Logically, if Branch can muster logic, he should be angry. She had been a damn coward when he had rejected her, he thinks with a hollow laugh. Putting him to sleep like he was a child. Running away from her problems because there was no bright side in the situation for her. He said no.

He meant it.

At the time.

But now?

But now, he doesn't want to say no. Not when it's plain to see his affection and maybe, just maybe he can be selfish for a moment. Relish in this connection, give into his heart of hearts and—

(Well, he won't go that far, but this. This can be good enough for now.)

With an aggravated sigh, Branch rises, his knees cracking. The stars speckle the night sky and remind him of the endless glitter that covers Poppy's skin. The swell of her cheeks, her hands, her shoulders.

There's peace in insanity, Branch knows. A calm that when the world is so wrong, that something must be going right. And despite how he got here, Branch thinks, that maybe—just maybe—this is going right.

The world is dark, shaded only by various of blacks and grays. Neither sun nor moon rests simultaneously in the sky, the world above bare of stars too. Time stands still as Poppy stands at the world's edge.

The ocean roars behind her, calls for her to come home, to find peace in its shadows. Her chest aches, longing for something, for someone to fill the empty space.

Please fill the cracks between you and me.

In the distance, Branch runs towards her, his voice a whisper on the breeze. A mumbling phrase drowned out by the sea below her, by the future that awaits her. Poppy shutters each second the gap between them doesn't close, the length between the two of them longer than a lifetime.

She smiles despite herself. She doesn't know what else to do. Feels helpless, feels hopeless. So, despite the longing, despite the pain and mouths the words you'll be okay. It takes only one step and she's falling off the cliff side. Her arms spread wide to catch the wind between her fingers, but no wings sprout from her back. She descends from bright suns and brighter moons. A journey in reverse, a rewind on what's she's done.

Poppy closes her eyes to welcome the pending darkness, allows herself to be swallowed whole by the ocean.

Poppy wakes with a scream, cold water splashing over her face. She pants heavy on her couch, wiping the water from her cheeks to the sound of ugly laughter. Fear settles only for a second before she sees who's here, then irritation washes over her instantly.

"Branch!" she snaps, gesticulating wildly. "What in the hell? One moment I'm minding my own business, asleep! And then—then—you decide to dump water all over me? Like, really, dude? Really?"

She huffs, annoyance stinging the air at his smug expression. Is today over yet? Can today just be over? Glancing down at her watch, she finds that it's 11:55 P.M. Great. Just. Great. Not even the summer solstice, and this is probably, most definitely the longest day ever.

Branch waits a beat, before sitting on the edge of her couch, his hands in his jacket pockets. His smirk turns slightly kind, but mischief is still there. "Payback's a bitch," he says. "That's what you get for putting me to sleep." He stresses the last sound and scoffs. "Like I'm some stray dog."

Poppy groans and resists flopping down again. She stares at the baubles on her bookcase to avoid making eye contact, though Branch's shit-eating-grin stands out in the corner of her eye. "Look, that—that was wrong," she admits, hands up in surrender. "I shouldn't have done that and I'm sorry. I'm really, really sorry…but! But!"

"Poppy! You can't say you're sorry and then try adding a 'but'! It doesn't work that way!"

Poppy whines, squirming on the couch. "I know, I know. I just—at the time, it made sense? You kinda rejected me and were having a meltdown?"

She phrases it as a question. Questions are safe. Gives time to Branch to confirm or deny depending on the state of his pride.

Branch lets out a deep breath. "O-okay. You're not-not wrong. Entirely. Both those things did happen. But!" he adds, his voice going higher. "There was a lot going on this morning! Like, uh, like finding out I'm kinda your soulmate thing person whatever! So, yeah! I did. Have a meltdown. That was completely warranted," he punctuates.

The space between them still as his apparent truth hangs over them. Oh god, this is awkward. Beyond awkward. Way to go, Poppy. That's what you get for trying to call him out. He calls you out and really. He's...he's more right.

"However," Branch says as he stands, the word punched with finality. He moves to kneel in front of her, hovers close—much more in her personal space than usual. "I'm going to promise to try," he says quietly.

She blinks.

"Try? Try what?"

(A part of her knows, a part of her knows, a part of her knows! But a bigger part of her, one that is scared and afraid and doesn't want to be rejected needs to hear it, needs it said out loud. Needs confirmation.)

He averts his eyes. "This whole familiar thing," he whispers. "I'll give it a go."

She shoots forward in her seat and almost knocks into his forehead. "Really? Seriously? You'll try?"

Her heart bangs fiercely in her chest, the beat caught in her veins as joy patiently waits behind closed doors to explode.

Branch falls back on his butt and hits her coffee table. "Watch it, you harpy!" he scolds. Rubbing a hand behind his neck, he shyly meets her gaze."But yeah, I'll see if I can do it. We're already tangled up."

Poppy can't help herself, she throws herself at him in a bear hug. "Oh my god, Branch! I just—I just—"

She's not going to cry, she swears. She will bawl in private later with her stuffed animals and pop music. But for now? Now she's going to feel and be happy and just—

"Yeah, yeah. I know. You love me. You're basically shoving a bakery up my nose by the way," he says with a playful chide. "Seriously, what is the deal with your scent thing? Like is it the same for everyone or…?"

She giggles and lets go, the world shifting a bit more right. "Sometimes. Kinda depends on how they make me feel, you know. She pauses before wondering. "Why do I smell like a bakery?"

Branch is thoughtful for a moment."Just cookies I used to eat as a kid."

She lets go, peering at him with perk interest. "...what kind of cookies?"

Branch rolls his eyes with good humor. "Now, that's a secret I'm not telling. I already gave myself to you, what more do you want?"

(Everything. She wants everything. She doesn't know what that means, but she wants it. She can ask about the details later.)

Poppy's heart skips a beat as Branch's jaw snaps shut. Affection explodes from every cell and makes her feel warm. She just—

Well, she loves him. So much.

Branch coughs and looks away. "I do have one condition."

"Sure, bud. What's up?"

He chews his words for a moment. "I want to still find out how to break the bond just in case. To give me a peace of mind, you know."

(It's okay. That's definitely not the sound of her heart starting to break. Nope. Definitely not.)

Poppy tries best not to physically dim, she really does, but she finds her joy a bit dulled down. "No, no. That...that makes sense. The lifetime gig part is kinda scary."

"Yeah. And I care about you, Poppy. You know that. But this is a huge commitment. And I've been roped into this and I need—"

Poppy finds a steely resolve within herself, an ore of strength she'd had to really dig deep for. But she pulls up its traces and threads to fortify it into words of assurance.

"It's okay. You'll be okay. Let's figure this out together...okay?"

A smirk buries into his cheek. "Okay."

She holds out her hands in invitation, and gingerly Branch clasps her hands.

"Alright, Branch. In these messed up circumstances, will you be my familiar? Through all the crazy times and weird. Through broken Doors and fixed windows. Through all the ups and downs of my insane life?"

He lets out a surprise laugh. "Sure, whatever, Poppy. I'm freaking yours."

She grins and brings his knuckles to her lips, leaving invisible kiss prints. He stiffens automatically, but doesn't let go. She grins at him through her lashes, not caring what this means, but—

"Thank you for being mine," she says.

The clock then chimes midnight, the day over and beginning as seconds tick towards the future. This odd and unexpected and a complete crazy roller coaster that's already jumped off the tracks, but Poppy?

Well, she's never been more excited.

A/N: THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR ALL THE REVIEWS EVERYONE. THEY ARE AMAZING AND I LOVE THAT YOU SEND THEM TO ME. I will be responding to them all personally over the next couple of days.

Anyway, I hope you enjoyed this dumpster fire of a chapter. You're amazing! Kisses!