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It’s the most in-depth tour that Gloria has ever given a new player. It’s actually only the second tour that xe’s given a new player, because after the first one they decided nobody needs to actually learn Gloria’s in-depth knowledge of the Garden. Xe probably knows the most about it out of anyone. Most people, according to Margo, don’t need to recognize every path and trail.
But Brock was the Gloria of the Crabitat, sort of. Xe didn’t spend all that much time with him, but when xe did it was in corners that nobody else knew about, normally ones that xe found on xyr own. Brock knew the Crabitat the way nobody else did.
And Brock’s in Boston now, and not happy about it, because in Gloria’s humble opinion there aren’t that many reasons to be happy about being in Boston. Xe’d take plenty of other cities over Boston any day.
Which is to say that it’s not really Gloria’s fault when they get lost. Xe explores the Garden plenty, and xe knows the dirt paths and flower patches and very proudly shows off the boggy little corner where xe was born.
(“Nice,” Brock pronounces, very politely. Gloria knew he’d like it.)
But then they turn through some of the flowers on a path that Gloria knows takes them back to the field, except the path curves left and not right, and xe thinks huh, that’s weird and chalks it up to bad memory, up until it’s been five minutes and they’re back in the woods.
“Gloria,” says Brock, not rudely. “Where are we?”
“The Garden,” Gloria says distractedly. Xe should have a better answer. But it’s not like xe likes being in the Garden all that much. There are cities and places that didn’t traumatize xem. Knowing a place is different from liking it, and liking it is different from loving it, and Brock already knows all that so it’s not like xe needs to explain any of it.
“Gloria,” Brock says again. “If you’re lost, you can say that.”
“I can’t be lost.”
“When places do this,” Brock says, “it’s wise to listen.”
“I’m not wise,” Gloria answers, and then belatedly catches Brock’s eye. “When places do what?”
He looks down at his feet, and Gloria follows suit. The ground is undulating beneath them, a gentle and alien motion, seedlings and blades of grass reaching up and out. Everything points towards Brock’s shoes, then down the not-right path.
“Huh,” xe says. “Do you need an adventuring buddy?”
“I don’t need one, no.”
“But you want one, right?”
Gloria isn’t good with people the way xe wants to be. Xe isn’t a Dunn or a Dreamy or even a Nic, who are all capable of tapping into some shiny bright well of empathy that xe has never found. But xe likes to think that Brock’s answering nod is accompanied by smiling eyes. Xem and Brock, they don’t need shiny wells of empathy. They have meaningful nods.
Xe lets Brock slip in front of xem as he follows the grass. No vines rise up to trip Gloria or anything, so xe has to assume that the Garden is granting xem permission to follow. Not that xe wouldn’t take out a pocket knife and slash xyr way through to follow Brock, but it’s nice that xe doesn’t have to.
The trees grow denser and thinner again, but taller, dwarfing them as they walk through. It’s the part of the Garden that Hiroto always calls off-the-map: the kind of place that’s less than completely natural, that exists somewhere in the wrinkle between the Boston Garden and the Garden.
Xe looks around and then groans. “I was going to take him here,” xe says petulantly.
Brock looks at xem, then slowly around the trees, taking in the shapes of them. They’re all a little odd, thin at the base and broadening as they grow, bark too smooth, striated in a way that trees aren’t normally striated.
“Bats,” he says, half a guess.
Gloria nods. “This is the fresh part,” xe says, and it would be easy to let xyr voice waver so xe doesn’t. “If you go back to the old stuff, Ace takes care of it.”
“Who does this part?”
“Hiroto,” Gloria says, and then pauses. That’s mostly true, it must be true, but there’s another answer. Xe points at a tree that’s more of a shrub, a bat-height lump that’s shrouded in greenery and wildflowers that shouldn’t be able to coexist. “And Moses.”
“Ah,” Brock says. A hand brushes his jacket pocket, and Gloria can guess what’s inside. Xe would never ask whose pearls he has, but he’s certain that he has too many. Just like how xe remembers when this forest was smaller, a wrinkle in the map and not a chasm.
“I can show you around,” Gloria offers. But xe knows the answer in the steady way Brock turns, giving each tree equal consideration. This is going to be his.
“Thank you,” says Brock. “But no thank you.”
His fingers are still toying with the pearls. Gloria looks a moment too long. Xe used to have a pearl necklace, a maudlin indulgence from the Grand Siesta, that xe threw away during the descension. Xe misses the weight of it. Trees just aren’t the same.
“Tell you what,” Gloria says at last. “I’ll find the key to Hiroto’s shed. And when you’re done here, you can find me, and I can show you what you need.”
“I’ve kept plants before.”
“Not like this. People visit here. Fans, family, teammates. Hiroto’s list of maintenance chores is…” xe pauses, struggling for the word. “Exhausting.”
“Exhaustive.”
“Both.”
Brock lets out a breath. Gloria can see it in the way his shoulders slope, the tension evaporating from his neck.
“I would like that,” he says at last. “Thank you,” Gloria.”
“Can I hug you?”
“No. Can I touch your hand?”
Xe nods, and so Brock gently takes Gloria’s hand in both of his. Xe feels so small, like a baby bird or a garland or a pearl.
Gloria lifts xyr other hand to pat at Brock’s wrist. He withdraws, and xe does the same, and looks at him. “Don’t do this because you feel like you have to.”
“I have to do something,” Brock answers. One of his eyes sparkles, iridescent and blinding. Gloria wonders what he sees. “That’s not the Garden, or the Olde One. It’s just me.”
“Well,” Gloria says, and takes a step back towards the trail. The grass seems to grow between them, not a wall or even a curb but a division all the same. “It’s as good a thing to do as any, right?”
“Better than most,” Brock agrees. “I’ll find you.”
“I’ll find you,” Gloria echoes, and turns away.