You never asked, but I can't stand your snoring, It's actually amazing, I can't believe you haven't sucked me in yet.

You never asked, but I think you're a terrible cook, I've never met anyone who can't make a salad before.

You never asked, but I can't help but laugh when you yell at the tv, Remember watching Love Island together? I laughed so hard my tea went up my nose.

You never asked, but I love the way you scrunch up your nose, Every time you're concentrating - it's the cutest thing.

You never asked, but I really like you.

I know I shouldn’t want this because it goes against every single rule in the rule book. And yeah, I’m not the kind of guy that follows the law to the letter, but when you’re literally breaking every single law, maybe it’s time to take a step back and ask - what the hell am I doing?

What the hell am I doing?

Well, since you asked, I’ll tell you. I’m falling in love with a boy from the past, which is very, very, bad.

Gosh, sorry, I’m making such a mess of this, let me start from the beginning.

I work for… I suppose you could call them the time police. We make sure time functions as it should and that no one goes off course etcetera, etcetera.

So one day we get reports of this mad-scientist, dramatically changing the course of history because his mad-experiments actually end up working. In all other times, his inventions backfire and kill him. Obviously, we’re called in to… well neutralise him.

Except… he’s smart. Except, he’s planned for something like this. Except he steals a time-travel pad and goes bouncing off into the future.

So now I’m hunting a fugitive. A fugitive who’s charismatic and clever and, yeah, a little bit crazy. But the longer I’m chasing him the more fun I’m having. And I’m learning all this stuff about him as he’s learning all this stuff about the future. Or my present, whatever.

And now I’m starting to doubt whether I should… whether I could… hurt him.

God, this is why I should keep daily mission logs, all this angst is tearing me apart.

This is Cadet Marcus, signing out, still wondering what the hell he’s doing.

'It's never been easy, being me-'

'That's terrible, Nells, cut that.'

'Really? B-but it's true!'

'Cut. It.'

'Ugh, fine. But only because you asked so nicely.'

'What's next?'

'Right. Ahem. I know all of you have come to know and love me-'

'Have we?'

'Shut up, you love me. Where was I?'

'I love you.’

'Right. All of you have come to know and love... you love me?'

'I love you, Nells. Now how about we finish that speech?'

‘R-Right. Yeah. The speech.’

Fireworks, like paint splatters, freckled the smoggy sky, trailing streams of crimson, vermillion, azure. The light from the show cast strange shadows over the caravans - twisted shadows, darkened doorways. Made a labyrinth of the carnival.

I couldn’t see the footpath between the tents, couldn’t make out the wires in the half-dark. And I was assaulted by smells at every turn - the hairdryer burn of popcorn - the sickly sweet tufts of candy floss.

The roar of the crowd, the stomp of their feet, pulverising the grass, build to a crescendo in my head. Suddenly, it became very hard to breathe. Everything was turned to full - the sound, the smell, the light - squeezed my skull until there was nothing left.

Nothing but her shoe in the mud before me.

You know, I really wasn't feeling it today. Have you ever felt like that, like no matter how hard you try, you just can't seem to summon the strength? That was me. And I can't seem to shake that feeling, that I'm the problem. That thought gnaws at me, gives strength to my lack of But then- Then I think about you, and what you would say, then I think about all the times I did my job and I did it well, then I think about all the other times things seemed really bleak, how I overcame that, then I think about coming home tonight, curling up next to you on the sofa, then I think I'll read, or watch tv, then I think I'll get an early night, drink a cup of tea in bed, then I think I'll feel alright.

Now I know what you're all thinking. You're thinking, who's that little green guy, trying to inspire us into revolution? Hi! (waves enthusiastically) I'm Selander. (rapid applause from the audience) Oh, you're too kind! Flowers, really? For me? Why thank you. 'Sel?' And a trophy! Why I couldn't possibly... 'Sel?' You'll name your first-born after me! Why, the honour-

'Selander!' Nahara poked her head around the door. 'They're ready for you.'

Selander adjusted his tie in the mirror. 'I'm ready.'

(Selander enters stage left)

Now I know what you're all thinking. You're thinking, who's that little green guy, trying to inspire us into revolution? Hi! (waves enthusiastically) I'm Selander. (there's a distinct lack of applause) You may know me from my work as a master thief? ... No? ... Anyone? (sighs) Alright, it doesn't matter. Point is, I'm here today to ask for your help. My friend, my... best friend and quite possibly the love of my life has been kidnapped. And I... need help to get him back. I need your help. (a cough echoes from the audience) Erm... Pretty please?

It's funny how the entire course of your life can hinge on one decision. Take Masahiko, who wouldn't usually frequent a public house but had crumbled under pressure from his scene partner.

'Come along, Hiko!' cried Jameson, a papercut of a boy whose hair stood on end whenever it was combed. 'I know just the place!'

Masahiko learned a lot about pubs in the first few minutes of entering one. You should never place your elbows on the bar, they're sticky with an undefined liquid and risk ruining the sleeves of your favourite blue blouse. Secondly, it's far too loud to hold a decent conversation - with what appears to be an entire oompah band crammed in the far corner, hitting notes that shake the walls. Lastly, never, ever accept a drink from the bar - it tastes sour enough to peel wallpaper.

Having come to these conclusions, Masahiko was prepared to bow out gracefully and had just batted Jameson's shoulder in farewell when the band struck up a different, calmer tune. It sent many squirrelling away from the writhing crush of bodies marking the dancefloor, leaving just one. A boy close to Masahiko's own age, seemingly unaware the music's tempo had changed, or that he was the last dancer standing, because he continued to...

Masahiko cocked his head. Dance wasn't really the word for it. Flounder? Wriggle? Whatever the other boy was doing, Masahiko felt a grudging respect for him.

'Cor,' Jameson clapped Masahiko on the back, 'he looks ridiculous! What's he doing?'

Masahiko shrugged off his scene partner's arm. 'I rather think he's doing his own thing.'

'Well it rather hurts my eyes,' Jameson quipped, his hand returning to Masahiko's shoulders not to console but to push. 'Why don't you show him how it's done, eh?'

Masahiko was too well-trained a dancer to ever trip, so he went onto the dancefloor with just a little extra momentum than usual. The other boy paid him no heed, continuing to move in his own way, now with his arms raised over his head like a blossoming flower. Perhaps it was the simplicity of the motion, or the joy radiating from the other boy's face, but Masahiko found himself raising his own arms above his head, mirroring the boy's movements.

That got his attention. The boy's smile spread even wider, and he was quick to welcome Masahiko into his dance, splaying his fingers and waving them. Masahiko copied, a laugh bubbling from his mouth as he followed the other boy's lead. For the first time in a long time, Masahiko wasn't thinking about the impending steps, but of the joy of the movement - however ludicrous they were. And there, on that grimy pub dancefloor, he felt something like joy.

Who knew palaces were so full of bureaucracy? I mean, I’ve been training my whole life to slay dragons on the battlefield, but when I’ve got to slay them in a boardroom? No thank you. That’s literally not my area of expertise.

Problem is… it’s what the people expect of me. Never mind that their princess just returned from fighting a war - a war against dragons, I hasten to add! - they can’t wait for her to restore order the old fashioned and senselessly boring way.

Granting permits, writing treaties, settling disputes. This is my life now, bounced between departments like an ill-used ping pong ball.

But how can this be happily ever after when I’m not even happy?

Floorboards creak, bearing the weight of stately figures, Children scamper through hallowed halls, off on grand adventures.

Stained glass windows cast coloured shadows, bright pools of light, Plates laden with food crowd the tables, a welcome sight.

Not a speck out of place, not even a cushion tassel out of alignment, There are worse places for me to spend my confinement.

I have seen many come and go, And many of those do not know, That if blow came to blow, Just how hard I'd fight, although, I try to show, I'll never let this place go.

This house is mine. It belongs to me. You are welcome to stay. But not for long. This house is mine. Not yours.

Growing up, Oswin was very ill. Living on the streets for a month had clearly taken its toll. He was starving and dehydrated and so incredibly tired so that, on one overcast Wednesday, when he found a deserted alleyway set back from the road, Oswin sat down and contemplated never getting up again.

That’s when he met Selander.

Oswin’s memory of that day was admittedly fuzzy. He could recall shouts and rough hands tugging at his jumper. And then a soft, kind voice encouraging him to stand. Oswin didn’t. In fact he passed out. But he woke in a warm bed, lit by honeyed candlelight, with his saviour, Selander pressing a cold flannel to Oswin’s temple.

Months passed in this way, Oswin struck down by illness and Selander his diligent nurse. The two struck an immediate bond, with Selander eager to read stories or narrate his adventures to the market and Oswin content to snuggle under the covers and listen.

One day, Oswin asked Selander why he bothered caring for an invalid.

“I’m such a burden,” he croaked, his voice whittled down to almost nothing, “you shouldn’t have to look after me.”

Selander had looked positively scandalised. “But you’re my friend,” he said, adding, with a smile, “besides, who else would listen to my stories?”

Oswin chuckled softly. “I do so against my will. I’m bedridden, remember?”

“Not for much longer,” Selander promised.

“You’re not a doctor.”

“But I am an optimist.”

Oswin laughed, this time so hard his ribs ached.

Looking back, Oswin supposed that was the start of it. The start of his… feelings.

As Oswin recovered, he attempted to repay Selander for all that he’d done to help him. Oswin cooked, which was a new skill and one he turned out to be terrible at. So he tried knitting, with much more success, gifting Selander hats and mittens and scarves so that the other boy appeared rather round every time he journeyed to the surface. And Oswin stayed awake every night until Selander came home.

Such was their life for a few years. Oswin was living warm and cared for and generally comfortable, until one day that saw Selander scribbling notes in the margins of a chemistry textbook and Oswin with his feet in Selander’s lap. The clack of Oswin’s knitting needles and the occasional rustle of Selander’s pages were the only sounds in the room.

Then Oswin raised his gaze to Selander for a moment and was struck by the way the candlelight brought out the auburn notes in Selander’s hair. Then his gaze dropped to Selander’s striking cheekbones and then the soft curve of his lips and Oswin knew he was staring but couldn’t seem to stop himself and it was too late anyway because now Selander had seen him.

“T-tea?” Oswin leapt from his seat as if scalded.

“Oh. Um. Yes, thank you,” Selander said politely, returning to his textbook, hopefully oblivious to the thoughts racing through Oswin’s head.

He was being ridiculous, he knew that. To have feelings for Selander were understandable, given that he’d nursed Oswin back to health, but quite impossible.

“Quite impossible,” Oswin told himself sternly, and busied himself with making tea.