The inside of his shop is almost exactly what I would expect it to look like after having seen the outside. It's bright, to say the very least. The colors inside are as if someone had haphazardly thrown yellows and greens and oranges and light blues and bright reds all over. It looks ... fun, honestly. It conveys a sort of innocence you only really see in children, but there's a joy in the way it's designed that I find comforting for some reason.

Like a balm for the soul. I feel good in here. Calm in a way I usually only feel alone. I wouldn't want it for my own house, but it suits this space quite well.

Despite the way the walls and furniture are colored, everything is actually quite organized. A desk upfront where papers with drawings of different clothing design ideas are spread across it, a few sticks that aren't pencils but might as well be given their purpose, some needles made of something that smells metallic but I don't recognize the actual material, a booklet with tabs at the ends that makes me think of an address book from back on Earth. No measuring devices, though, and no machines, either.

"Uh, Abenjiirin? I just had a question, sorry. How do you do measurements, if you don't mind me asking? I don't see anything you could use for that here," I say, still looking around at everything. Stools and a few mirrors, many, many different types of fabric, and spools of thread, and buckets of pins in several different places. The space feels electric in how it's designed. The opposite of boring. I could see him being happy spending endless hours in this place.

Abenjiirin chuckles brightly, amused. He'd opened a cabinet by the back wall where the mirrors were while I wasn't looking at him, and had bent over to rifle through its contents. Now that I'm looking in his direction, I see even more fabric inside but there are other things, too. String that resembles shoe laces, material that looks like leather, some longer pieces of metal I'm not sure the purpose of, buttons—if they exist, why had I not seen anyone wearing any? Cultural thing? If it's that, then why does he have them?—and some other random odds and ends I can't identify.

"Did you not have anyone who made clothing where you come from? What did you all wear, then, if not clothes? I refuse to believe you're from a nudist colony, Zed!" Abenjiirin jokes, his whole upper body basically stuffed in this cabinet, pulling out different fabric and throwing them onto a table behind him without even looking. His tail, now that I can look at it without him knowing and thus not feel creepy, is happily flicking back and forth similar to how a cow's would instead of a cat's—which is something I might have been curious about given the appearance of his tail.

His dark green pants come up to the base of his tail, and the blazer portion of the outfit is up around his shoulder blades as he continues grabbing what is essentially a mountain of fabric. His fur appears to cover the entirety of his torso, though it's shorter around the midback and stomach it seems, before getting longer around the chest area as it travels up onto the shoulders and head. I can't say anything about the, uh, lower portions, but I'm just looking because this is the first real time I've met a different freaking race of people! Heruutin doesn't count.

I'm not being weird.

"Zed?" Abenjiirin's voice calls out and I realize I had ignored him. My cheeks flush with heat.

"Y-yeah, we wear clothes, of course, but I never saw anyone making them. They're available for purchase in a big building where they're placed out in various sizes and genders. We're all Zenithals so they don't really have to be tailored like you do for the people here, I suppose. I never really thought about it before." Well, obviously I can't say they make them with big machines in bulk by the thousands for the cheap clothing, and I don't know if they have sewing machines here. I don't want to say the wrong thing.

Ugh, this is going to suck unless I tell someone. I can't be conscious of every word that comes out of my mouth forever. Why shouldn't I tell people I'm from a different Universe again? Gods or something?

Sorry, Aethos, I promise I was listening. I just ... forgot? I'll hold off anyway, for now, until I find someone I trust more.

"Oh, I see. That's strange but cool. I've never been anywhere but Esh, so I don't really get to see anything cool like that. I do get to meet a lot of cool people who do get to go other places, though. I love hearing about where people come from. Ackellia is so big! Did you know that there's this huge crater up north where Begb'urthag punched a White-ranked Beast so hard it basically blew up a whole province's worth of land? The thing's corpse dissolved and now the whole thing is a never-ending farm for Sunfel plants!"

He finally finishes grabbing fabric out of the frankly deceptively sized cabinet and stands up again, straightening out his clothes with his fingers, and then rubbing the scarf between his hands as he continues speaking animatedly. I'll admit it does sound cool, even if I don't know what Sunfel plants are.

"I'm sorry. I have no idea what a Sunfel plant is," I say, grimacing. I hate not knowing things. I'm going to be spending so much time not knowing things here!

"Oh, I'm sorry. I keep forgetting. Auntie did say you'd never been outside the commune you grew up in. I guess you're in a similar situation to me, except you didn't get to hear any cool stories. Did no one come through where you lived at all?"

I nod my head. "Yeah, they did, but only other Zenithals and I didn't get to talk to them, only eavesdrop on their conversations with various other members of the community. I'm basically extremely ignorant about anything that's not fighting or making swords. Kind of a one-trick pony."

Abenjiirin's furry brows cinch together. "Pony? What's a pony?"

"You don't have horses here?"

"No, I can't say that we do! What's a horse?"

Shit. "Its a four legged animal with hooves and a big head that you basically ride for fun. It can be used to carry things long distances, but mainly for recreation since Zenithals can just do the same thing but better."

"Oh wow, that's cool! An animal just for riding? How big are they? Would I be able to ride on one, you think?" He seems very excited about the prospect and I hate to dash his hopes but he's basically bigger than a horse already.

"Ah, no, sorry. Minotaurs are a bit too large to ride a horse. Zenithals weigh much less than we look." At least, that's what Aethos said.

He pouts. It's a very cute pout. Imagine a cow pouting, but a sapient one who's face is more humanoid but still retains all the cuteness of a cow. Yeah. I have to restrain myself from say, "Aww," out loud.

"That's sad! I guess I understand. It's still disappointing, though! I was imagining myself riding through town on this horse and making everyone extremely jealous they weren't riding one," he says matter-of-factly. I smirk. Abenjiirin is kind of fun to be around. I'm not used to feeling that way.

"You never answered my question. Well, there are two now. How do you measure, and what are Sunfel plants?" I change the subject, watching him pull out different swatches of fabric, hold them in front of his eye while looking in my direction before either shaking his head and tossing them back in the still-open cupboard behind him or smiling and putting them aside. His ears raise quickly before flopping back down.

I really have to figure out why I find the things he's doing so cute. I thought cows were cute back on Earth but this is different, somehow? Like a cute where I want to run away but also squeeze him very hard. I guess I can be glad he can't tell how I'm feeling the way I can about others.

Abenjiirin feels happy, as seems to be his default. It brightens every so often, but it remains the same emotion. He flickers through to curious, excited, focused, and then back to happy depending on what he's doing or saying, but his baseline is most definitely happy. It's not the suffocating kind of happy, either, where it's all energy which I usually find annoying, so that's good. It's just a happy that radiates from the very fiber of his being, it seems.

"I measure with my Aura. It's a Spell my Tailor Class granted called [Measure] but it only works on people, fabric, and drawings. I tried it on a table one time and it didn't even activate. I don't know how the Spell knows what it's being asked to measure, but it does, anyway. I'm trying to learn how to cast it myself without the System so I can measure other things, too, but I've been unsuccessful so far." He's finally finished going through the fabric, it seems, having put the fabric he isn't going to use back in the cabinet and closing it up. There's now a much smaller pile of dark blues, browns, grays, tans, oranges and greens. Very bright.

"A Sunfel plant is a very, very popular ingredient in Alchemical solutions like Healing Potions or Bandage Ointment. It's very good at closing up wounds. They're constantly being harvested from Bur's Crater—that's what it's called, by the way—because if they didn't get pulled up as often as they do, they would spread faster than an Itch Spell!" He laughs lightly, a smell of nostalgia registering in my brain. Obviously there had been something in the past involving an Itch Spell that he finds funny.

"Oh, that's interesting. So how does this work, then? If it can only be cast on drawings, clothing, and people, how are you going to measure me for the clothes? I'm going to have to take this off, aren't I?" I say, horror flooding my body like water out of a burst dam. I'm not wearing anything under the robe. He doesn't have measuring tape.

"Huh? Of course you will, Zed; how else would I measure you for clothes? The robe would interfere with the measurements and I can make clothes based on how I think you look under there, but they wouldn't turn out right. Don't worry! I do this for everyone in town. It's only weird if you make it weird. Keep your underwear on if you want. A bit of room never hurt anyone!" His eyes close as he smiles brightly, disarmingly, but I'm already shaking my head, backing away. My breathing gets quicker and it's harder to pull in air all of a sudden.

Panic. That's what I'm feeling. Complete and utter panic. I can't do this. I don't want to do this. Please, you have to have some clothes I can just put on. I can't have you measure me so exactly, touching me with your soul, while I haven't got anything on. Abenjiirin opens his eyes when I don't respond, and they widen when he sees me.

I'm backed against the door, scrambling for the handle, trying to get away. I have to get away. I can't stay here. I can't be here. Please, open the knob. Let me out. Let me. Out. Out. Ple—

"Zed!" He says loudly, fear and confusion and concern washing over me, his hands clamping on my shoulders firmly but gently. I can't get the fucking door open! Why can't I—

"Zed," he whispers, and my eyes meet his. He's serious. Concern is what he's feeling right now. Concern and empathy and understanding. "Zed, I don't know what I did to upset you and I am so sincerely sorry. I have an idea, and I won't make you talk about anything since we literally just met, but I didn't know it would affect you like this."

His voice is soft, his hands still on my shoulders. They're warm. His eyes are still on mine. My hand is still on the knob, the metal bent underneath my grip, but I'm not desperately pulling at it anymore. I can't catch my breath, each breath in feeling like I'm losing more air than I'm gaining, pulling faster and faster, trying to get air. I can't breathe. I'm part fucking bird and I can't breathe? Breathe, Zed. Breathe. Calm down. You're okay. I close my eyes, trying to force the air to stay in my lungs, to make the blackness at the corner of my vision go away instead of closing in.

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

This is so fucking embarrassing. Doing this when he was just trying to help. What kind of fucking weak—

And then I'm wrapped in his arms, face pressed against his chest, his fur soft and warm. It reminds me of my bed back on Earth, soft blankets and pillowcases adorning everything I put on it.

"You're not weak, Zed. Don't say things like that," he says against my feathers. Apparently I had said it out loud.

I want to cry. I'm so fucking embarrassed. I just met him. Why couldn't this have happened after? When I was alone? In my house? I haven't had a panic attack like this one since...

No, I had one a few hours ago, too, but that one was different.

I breathe in, his concern filling my lungs, his empathetic sadness billowing in along with it, nearly choking out my own feelings. I feel something wet on my face and I realize I'm crying. When had I started that? Fucking hell.

Why am I feeling so much shame? What is shameful about this, exactly? Having a breakdown? Crying? Running away? Terror? Panic?

None of those things should be embarrassing, so why are they?

Abenjiirin starts humming. The same soft tune I'd heard before I entered, reminiscent of a lullaby. The sound brings me closer to the present, having gathered some of my frayed attention. Five things I can feel, four things see, three things hear, two smell, one taste. That's what they say right? To ground yourself? Glad to know it's still relevant in a fantasy world I'd been kidnapped into. Okay, Abenjiirin's fur, my lungs burni—

" The stars above are watching you,

as you drift to sleep,

they twinkle and they dance,

so you don't make a peep;

The music of the cosmos,

listen close, my dear,

for whenever you should hear it,

I'll be oh, so near.

Sleep tonight so warmly,

cast away your fear

and when you wake come morning,

I will be right here."

His voice is soft but deep, soothing. It is a lullaby, I realize, then. The words elicit such a feeling of grief inside my chest I can hardly stand it.

Then I realize the grief isn't mine. It's Abenjiirin's. Singing the song is causing him grief. Grief so strong that the smell of it is overwhelming my brain's ability to tell the difference between the two. Or because I'm already so distressed.

It works, though. I don't know if it's the song, or the way Abenjiirin is feeling right now, singing a lullaby obviously connected to his mother who passed away—a mother he misses so much that even all these years later he's still experiencing the grief as if it were yesterday; a feeling I can only tangentially empathize with because he misses his mother while I wish I had had one, been loved by her in the first place—while hugging me so tightly against his chest I can feel his heartbeat against my cheek, or some combination, but it works.

I take a deep breath in and slowly let it out when the song is over, forcing my heart to slow down and my lungs to take in air. In and out. In and out. I stay in this position for a second longer, oddly comforted by it despite having hated such things back on Earth, before pulling away. I wipe my face on the back of my sleeves before I meet Abenjiirin's eyes again.

He's sad. Abenjiirin, the big ball of joy who hadn't even flinched in the face of Heruutin's insults and aggression, is sad, tears flooding his eyes and wetting the fur on his cheeks. His ears are flat against his face, upper lip is quivering as he tries to hold back his body's reaction to all the emotion he's experiencing right now. I feel that, too. Or at least, I smell it now. It's separate from me again.

For some reason, it makes me want to start crying again, seeing him this way.

"I'm sorry," I start to say, but Abenjiirin cuts me off before I can get any further.

"You have nothing to be sorry for, Zed. Nothing at all. I'm sorry I made you feel like that. I'm sorry, okay?" He whispers fervently at me, as if were he to try and speak any louder his voice might break. I shake my head and open my mouth to say it's not his fault but he starts again before I can say anything.

"No, don't say it's not my fault. I couldn't have known how it would affect you, sure, making the request I did, but I realized you were uncomfortable when you asked how it worked and I tried to make light of it instead of taking you seriously. That is my fault, okay? That's my fault. I'm sorry. There is nothing wrong with how you reacted and I don't think any less of you because of it, okay? You're not weak. You came here even knowing that something like that might happen and kicked a minotaur's ass more than twice your size without even blinking."

His tears are gone, now, but the sadness isn't. But it's different now. He's sad for me this time. It's not pity, either, I can tell. He's feeling sad on my behalf, at whatever it was that happened that caused this. I close my eyes at the tears that start to well up again.

"Thank you," I say, simply. Lamely. Thanks for caring. Thank you for helping. Thank you for not getting angry or making me feel bad for the way I reacted. Thank you.

"I want to help you, okay? I still want to get you the clothes made, however that can happen. Let's go over some options, then, yeah?" He's still whispering, still trying not to cry because he knows this isn't about him and it might make it worse. I silently thank him for that, too. I nod.

"I could get Auntie in here to accompany you if that would make you feel safer? Or you could stand on the other side of my bedroom door with the lock engaged and I could take the measurements through the door? Or I could eyeball some measurements real quick and you could just stay here for a while while we adjust everything until it fits how you want? I don't mind. I can close down the shop. I own the place, after all, and Auntie gave you a lot of money," he tries chuckling to lighten the mood but its obvious he isn't feeling it. I want to apologize again. I don't know why.

I shake my head. The words aren't coming. I'm fine now, my breathing is back to normal and my heart is calm but the words still aren't coming.

"You were saying some really heavy stuff back there, Zed. I don't think you even realized it. The way you feel about yourself? That's ..." Abenjiirin stops momentarily. I can see him searching for some word to encompass the way he feels about the way I feel about myself, the things I had said. I don't even know what I said. I didn't mean to say anything out loud.

I had hoped a new body would fix me. I had even gotten hopeful when I realized I wasn't experiencing any sensory issues. I guess that was pretty stupid of me to think, huh?

"That's heartbreaking," he says, finally. "That's so heartbreaking, Zed. That you can think those things about yourself. I just met you and I already know that you are such a strong guy. All that shit you went through? You're here. You're here, okay? I know you don't know me, but I'm here, too. If you need to talk, I'm here. Hell, if you just need a hug, I'm more than happy to do that for you, okay? I'll go with you to the Healers of the Mind and I'll wait outside until you're done talking. I just can't be okay with you thinking that way about yourself."

I look up at his face, expression still completely serious as he stares back at me, his eyes searching my own, flitting back and forth between them as if to find something. I swallow the thickness in my throat.

"I don't want her to see me like this," is the first thing I manage to get out of my mouth. Abenjiirin nods immediately.

"Okay," he whispers again. He clears his throat. "Okay," he says louder this time, finding his voice, and some of the tension breaks. "Another option, then. Trial and error? Bedroom? I teach you how to make the clothes over a period of several weeks," he teases. This time I do laugh, although it's weak. I'm less embarrassed than I was, but it's still clawing at my throat. The shame. The feeling of being weak for doing this, feeling this, being this.

Abenjiirin reaches out a large hand and lightly grabs my wrist. I look down. The hand of the arm he'd grabbed is squeezing my other forearm hard enough that my knuckles had gone white. My fingernails—my talons—had broken the skin there and blood is lightly traveling down my arm toward the floor. I try and wipe it away with my sleeve but he stops me.

"Stop, Zed. You're hurt. Let me help, okay?" He says, still in that oh-so-gentle voice. I look at the floor, unable to meet his eyes. It's as if all the fire I had felt since coming here, killing my kidnappers, confronting Heruutin, is gone, leaving this in it's place. This void. This emptiness. This weakness.

Why can't I just handle my own emotions? Why do I always do things like this? If I'm so strong, then why am I still so fucking traumatized all these years later? I want to be okay. I just want to be okay.

Abenjiirin wipes gently at the blood on my arm with a piece of wet cloth. Some of the fabric he'd discarded, I recognize. It's soft and absorbent so I'm clean almost immediately, but he doesn't let go of my hand after my arm is clean. I look up at him.

"How can I help you, Zed? What do you need?" he asks.

"Just don't leave me alone, okay?" I whisper, my voice breaking as the dam inside of me cracks again.

"I won't," he says.

And he doesn't. He brings me into his room in the back, much larger than I had expected given the shape of the building's front, and sits me on his bed which is easily twice the size of a California King—such a weird detail to notice, right?—and settles across from me on a couch of all things. He sits there with me for I-don't-know-how-long while I calm myself down, collect my thoughts, figure out how to continue.

I do feel better, though. Having him here makes me feel better for some reason. Like I'm not alone. Like there's nothing wrong with me.

"Abenjiirin?"

"Call me Benji. I prefer it." Benji it is.

"Okay, Benji," I respond. Some of his happiness comes back when I use the nickname. I continue. "Thank you. This is all really embarrassing," I say, once I feel like I can say more than a few words.

"There is nothing embarrassing about it. You don't need to feel embarrassed because I'm not judging you. Some people go through things that would break other people. The cracks that are left when those wounds don't heal are going to hurt sometimes. You wouldn't feel ashamed of a physical wound, would you?"

I know all this logically. I know it. I've accepted it, but I just don't believe it. Not for me. Which is so stupid because I don't feel that way when it comes to others, so why can't I do the same for me? How do I do the same for me?

"I don't know how to believe that," I admit. I shrug.

"I wish I had the answer for you," he says. He's rubbing his scarf with the hand that isn't squeezing mine. "Or at least, I wish I could believe it for you."

"Me too," I laugh bitterly. Benji frowns.

"I was serious, you know? About being able to come here? You can talk to me about whatever you want, whenever you want. My door is always open."

"You just met me. What if I'm some psycho murderhobo?"

"I don't know what a murderhobo is, but I know you're not a psycho and you're not a murderer. If you were a psycho, you wouldn't have defended me to Heruutin." The vowels, when he says them, are glottal, originating from the back of his throat. I hadn't noticed before. I should ask him if it's the same for his own name. "If you were a murderer, you would have simply killed him. I know you could have. Easily, too. But you apologized to me for how I reacted to it instead."

"I guess it's pretty obvious I don't have any friends, huh?" I ask. Jesus, shut up, you melodramatic edge lord. I almost roll my eyes at myself.

"If I didn't know you were at least a few thousand miles away from your home and had never been outside of your commune, I'd wonder where someone so cool had wandered in from and where all his obviously even cooler friends were." He says it as if it's a fact. Not as if he's trying to comfort me. I can tell it's a joke, though, even if he's being serious and I laugh. Benji smiles, relieved.

"Kiss ass," I say. Benji snorts.

"Sure, if it'll make you feel better," he teases again. I roll my eyes, looking at him more directly.

"Seriously, thank you. I know you said I don't have to be sorry for how I reacted, but I don't know where all that came from. I'm sorry about your door, too. I kind of broke it, I'm pretty sure."

"I don't care about the door. I can replace it. What kind of person would I be if I let you leave in such a state, especially when you don't know anyone here and just got into an altercation with a member of my family, none of whom would have any misgivings about attacking you even if you were so obviously distressed?" He shakes his head, his ears wobbling back and forth. I want to touch them, kind of.

"Still," I insist, unwilling to back down on this.

"You're welcome," he concedes, smiling. "I'm happy to do it."

"Can I ask you a question? That song you sang? Was that something your, uh, your mom used to sing to you?"

I wish I could take it back as soon as I see the way it brings the sadness back.

"I'm sorr—"

"Yeah, it was. She used to sing it to me every night before bed before she died. I would lay my head in her lap and she'd rub my horns and play with my hair until I fell asleep. I used to have really bad nightmares. She never complained even once, even though I know it made her tired. I would wake up hours later, still in her lap, and she'd be staring down at me with so much love in her eyes. I'd lay down in my bed to fall back asleep on my own and she would go to bed after that. Every night." His voice is thick again.

"She sounds like an amazing person."

"She was," he whispers. I see the tears forming, the sadness churning.

I hug him this time.

I definitely don't mention the small moo he lets out when his arms wrap around me and his head falls onto my chest. Nor the following few as he cries even harder. We both know it happened, but I don't care, and he has no reason to be embarrassed about it.

After all, I'm not judging him.