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“There’s an odd number, though, Four,” someone to Tree’s right points out (Golfball, he assumes, based on the snap in her tone and the nasal in each subtle syllable. When he eyes the corner of his peripheral vision, he is not the most surprised at what meets him) . She gestures vaguely at everything in front of her, and Tree’s smart enough to know that she’s gesturing towards them ; towards the final ten contestants. “How are we supposed to split into pairs?”
“I can go alone,” Pencil volunteers with a nonchalant shrug of her shoulders, arms crossed over her midriff as she eyes the sun, disgust laced into every wrinkle of her frown and the scrunch of her nose and the gleam of her eyes. “I’d rather not see what you guys dream about, thanks.”
“Good,” Four says, in that eerie way that Four tends to speak.
They reach out one arm (the rest of the cast no longer flinches when it unfurls at startling speeds, parting the small crowd like Moses as fingers wrap around Pencil) and pull Pencil towards them, placing them on a stage with a pat of their head.
X squeals in joy, wrapping their arms around Pencil. Pencil responds by looking awkwardly into the crowd and placing her hands on top of X’s head; comforting in the only way she knows how. The rest of the cast no longer flinches when X, despite their size, lifts her into the air. “Yay!”
Tree finds himself turning to glance at Black Hole, almost by intuition. He tells himself that he is not surprised to see that Black Hole is already staring at him; black, gaping head. Eyes unrecognizable to those that do not him.
(But Tree knows him as well as he knows his own bark, his own skin. Tree knows every late night conversation and every hum between pursed lips and every subconscious twist and turn of skin. Tree knows that when Black Hole is not human he consumes everything in his path, and when he is human he cannot run and cannot race. Tree knows that there is a reason that Black Hole normally takes on his alter-ego to perform challenges—but there is something so sweet about the moments before the challenge, where Black Hole has to do nothing besides stand there, and Tree can do nothing but stare.
Tree knows that Black Hole does not have eyes like Tree, or even eyes like Four: mangy black dots. Rather he has eyes that Tree has grown to recognize. Eyes that Tree can feel on his skin, bark. Hot. Unrecognizable.)
Black Hole tilts his head in consideration—it is his way of smiling.
It is his way of offering peace until he becomes something deadly once more; something he wishes for Tree to hate, and something that pains Tree to see.
He knows that there is nothing evil about Black Hole, but there is something despicable in the way that he has been trained to hate himself. There is something truly nightmarish in the way Black Hole talks about his true self in words that scrape against Tree’s ears and make him want to act like a little kid again.
Tree is a little kid, he thinks. He is holding his hands tight against his ears and he is closing his eyes so tight that he feels dizzy and he is singing ‘ la-la-la ’ underneath his breath until Black Hole’s words are replaced by his own. He is frightened by the dark and terrified by words as simple as ‘idiot’ and ‘stupid’. It is all a dizzying taboo.
Tree blinks away the thought, the fear. He offers Black Hole a smile of his own.
They both turn back to look at where Four stands on the stage, throwing a temper-tantrum that Two would never be the wiser about (and Tree thinks of them too. Do they know that Gaty is not coming back? Do they know that this is the sacrifice of being a host? Do they know that love is the scariest thing of all?) as Golfball asks yet another question about their so-called challenge.
“Shut up!” Four says through the side of their mouth. Tree supposes it goes to show how normal their behavior is by the way nobody flinches when they swipe the mouth off of Golfball’s face with the palm of their hand. “You’ll get back your mouth privileges in the mindscape.”
“I hate the mindscape!” A new voice comes from their left. Tree does not have to look to know who it is.
“Does everyone have their teams?” X asks, letting go of Pencil to kick a foot in their air, all unbridled joy that Tree has sort-of missed since Two’s departure. “Let’s see—” they squint as they count, slowly moving through the unpaired group. Tree’s about to speak up in protest (he doesn’t want to be assigned a random team. He wants Black Hole, or even Fanny—someone who he knows; who’s dreams he will care about) when X claps their hands together once more “—Yay, we’re all here!”
They snap their fingers, now glowing white. “Have fun!”
And before Tree knows it, the room is spinning where he stands; sharp grass that itches at his feet (that reminds him of home) turning into plush white flooring, comforting and soft and as warm as a bed. It is like marshmallows and pillows and all things lovely.
He falls asleep without a hitch, victim to the mindscape.
-
Tree wakes up incoherent, his mind an extra weight that stabs at the pressure points in his muscles like spears, and he tries to force his forehead into the ground below him to quell any pain, any suffering. His skull feels heavy and his thoughts are all over the place (it’s like waking up with a hangover, dehydrated, with a heartache. It’s like waking up and knowing that the day is going to be shitty. That you are going to be a shitty person today) .
Something in his mind urges him to rest; to sleep—it begs for a couple hours more. It begs for him to curl up into a ball, all tired energy and worthless nothings. Why must he do something when it has been so long since he has a day to himself, all alone; like this.
The other half of his mind is a flurry of thoughts that pass through the back of his eyes like a television screen’s menu, going too fast for him to comprehend any of it—there is confusion and hate and love . There are thoughts that are the blur of white words in the form of a television show description, and ideas that shout at him in bold. Wake up , is a prominent one, fighting against the other, more convincing side of his brain. It’s not your dream , come another, more comprehensible; more recognizable.
It’s not your dream, his mind tells him, and he pushes himself to a sitting position, rubbing at the crystalized gunk in his eyes. You’re in somebody else's mind, comes the next coherent thought, adding to the ache of his head. He presses a hand against his head as he looks up, fixing his hair with his other hand. This is somebody else’s dream.
And, well. That does it. Now he’s awake.
He uses his arms to sit up, pressing most of his weight against his palms as he glances around. At first glance, he doesn’t know who’s mind he’s in (a voice in the back of his head, now awake, whispers hopeful nothings against his ear. You’re in Black Hole’s dream. He’s waiting for you, out there in the great expanse).
When Tree looks around, he sees the familiar setting of Two’s hotel—something that any contestant could dream about, given how many times they had thrived for the power Two had used to pull it from the ground. He is sitting in the lobby on a silk chair that he has sat in one too many times (which is, well. Odd, for lack of a better word. Whoever’s mind he’s in knows him well enough to know that he is most commonly drinking tea in the lobby, or playing board games with a cheating Fanny and teaming Golfball and Tennis Ball. Whoever’s mind he’s in knows him well enough to place him here, subconsciously, in his own little spot. Where Tree is most comfortable) watching steam pillow out of an old teapot. There’s the hum of someone in the kitchen, but the noise lacks the background of footsteps and clatter.
It is all of the parts that make the hotel so lovely—so inviting —without any of the actual contestants.
Odd.
For a moment, he laughs to himself—out loud, just so he can make sure he’s not going insane.
There’s something intangible about the noise, even when it comes to himself. It is a little awkward and a little frightening, but it feels right in the empty space of the hotel.
The humming of the kitchen stops. Tree sits still until it picks back up.
This time, Tree can sort of recognize the hum as Bottle—which is a little weird, considering she’s been eliminated for a good amount of time by now—but when she giggles before humming the familiar chorus of an old children’s song, Tree finds himself humming along.
This doesn’t seem like a dream, Tree finds himself thinking, twiddling his thumbs as he sits still. He’s waiting for something to happen—for the dream to actually start. Where’s the bloodshed, the violence? The nightmares and the fantasy and the flying pigs? For a moment, he wonders if perhaps the algebraliens mixed up his and Pencil’s positions—maybe Pencil is having the time of her life in Black Hole’s deepest dream (his biggest want, Tree adds with a stab to his own chest) and he is here as the odd-player out. The one without a partner.
Maybe. Perhaps. It definitely wouldn’t be the first time this has happened to him.
There is one way to win, Four had said, holding the orb that Two had given them for the challenge today. It was from the nightmare challenge a few weeks back, poorly tweaked so that it would display their happiest dreams instead. Wake them up. The pairing that completes today’s challenge first will win immunity.
And that was that. As long as Tree found whoever was having this elusive dream and woke them up—or, perhaps, he found some way to wake himself up—he would be safe from elimination: something he’s been dangerously dangling along the bottom line of.
He needed to be safe; needed to guarantee that all of this aching and longing and dreaming wasn’t for nothing.
As long as Tree found whoever was having this elusive dream, he repeated to himself, slowly.
That made more sense, he figured. He needed to find whoever was having this dream. The person who was asleep right now was probably frolicking in a field somewhere else in the mindscape, and they had just never paid a second thought to Tree beyond his placement in the lobby. That’s why he woke up in the hotel, and that’s why the lobby is nothing more than everything that made it a lobby without the people who thrived in it. Tree just needed to find whoever he was looking for.
That was how he was going to win today’s challenge.
“Black Hole?” He tries first, standing up. He doesn’t know where another contestant may hang out in their free time, granted. He supposes asking never hurt, though. “Golfball? Fanny? Can any of you hear me?”
He does not receive a response.
Tree decides to head for the stairs, planning to check the hotel rooms before checking elsewhere. He doesn’t think most of the contestants would choose to be in the hotel, if given the choice—he knows Golfball has a lab in the depths of the dirt, hidden like a fossil. He knows that Fanny hates the hotel and hates the nearby forest and hates the oven in the middle of the desert, so he really hopes he’s not her partner (he doesn’t think she would dream about the hotel, though. Tree thinks that if he was Fanny’s partner, she would have made herself evident by now) .
He turns the corner on the third floor, where he knows Black Hole (and TV, he makes a conscious effort to remind himself about) resides. “Hello? Anyone home?”
This time, he receives a response.
He has to tell himself to not get excited when he hears something small in Black Hole’s room. Tree half-runs, half-walks, towards the door, wrapping a hand around the doorknob and pressing the other hand against the wood, trying to see if it’s Black Hole himself (or, you know, somebody dreaming about being in Black Hole’s room, which makes something dark flare in the pits of Tree’s chest, boiling like acid).
For a moment, he hears absolutely nothing.
He has to tell himself to not get too disappointed at the lack of noise. It was stupid of him to even be excited in the first place.
But then he hears another noise—something sharp, like an inhaled breath between clenched teeth.
It’s muffled through the wood, but Tree doesn’t think the person making the noise is very concerned about what noises they’re making in their own dream. Tree doesn’t even know if they know they’re dreaming (Golfball had asked, for the record. Four had just made a point to take away her mouth as a response. Which isn’t really the answer anyone was looking for).
“Hello?” Tree asks, rapping his knuckles against the door.
The person on the other side does not respond.
Then, there is the soft noise of a shaky exhale; someone releasing a baited breath: “Tree.”
“Black Hole,” Tree says, turning the door handle without a second thought. “Oh thank goodness . You’re actually here! I was starting to get a little worried about who my partner was going to be, and I didn’t—”
Black Hole let’s out another breathless gasp, and Tree’s eyes flicker from one side of the room to the other. It takes him a minute longer to find Black Hole, who sits on the edge of the bed (he has the same sheets as you do, the absolutely helpless, yet convincing, part of Tree’s mind tells him. Tree reminds himself that everyone has the same sheets—the green stripes were provided complimentary of Two’s hospitality). Black Hole’s back is curved, and he sits with his elbows resting against his legs, arms between his thighs. Tree has the privilege of looking at his side profile—a murky black, absolutely stunning.
And he wonders if Black Hole would laugh. Not only does he swallow any mass, but he sucks the words out of Tree’s mouth before he can say anything to him. He's alluring, mystifying. Captivating.
“Tree,” Black Hole says again. He rolls his shoulders along with his name, upper arms shaking as his hands stay in his lap. He lets out another little gasp, chin quivering. “Again.”
“What?” Tree asks (but you’re not an idiot, he tells himself. You know what he’s doing, what this means). He takes a step closer, eyes pointedly focused on the abyss of Black Hole’s face. There are white dots hidden in the purple; Tree wonders if he knows this—if he’s stared in a mirror long enough to look. “Black Hole, what are you talking about? I haven’t even done anything.”
“Don’t tease,” Black Hole manages, but he’s not even looking at Tree. His gaze is focused on the floor in between his legs, where there is nothing but blank air. “Please.”
Tree feels something sharp in his chest once more, a spear against his head and against the pit in his stomach. He takes another step forward, crossing his arms over his chest as he glares at Black Hole.
He does not like the way Black Hole is not looking at him—he does not like the way that Black Hole sits all pretty like that and does not even look at Tree while doing it.
You’re jealous of the ground, a voice in the back of his mind informs him. Tree does well to ignore it.
Tree takes another step forward, cautionary words on the tip of his tongue. He is about to do something—inform Black Hole that it’s just a dream, and whatever hallucination he’s seeing is fake —when his line of vision travels over Black Hole’s thigh, and he can see the top half of what he has been nursing in human hands.
Tree finds that he cannot move as he stares, watching as Black Hole drags careful fingers along the girth of his dick.
His hands hold his member the same way they have once wrapped around Tree’s wrist, and Tree finds himself shuddering at the memory; a full body shiver traveling down his spine.
“Baby, please,” Black Hole repeats once more, voice more whine then the collected tone that it normally is. Tree hopes that it’s not a mistake—that he’s not imaging anything. He hopes that he’s the one Black Hole is dreaming about.
Tree wants to be the one that makes the man into a mess of whimpers and baited gasps. He wants to ruin him until he is nothing but a pleading mess. He wants to love and be loved.
As if he can hear his thoughts, Black Hole whimpers again.
Tree takes another cautionary step forward, blood traveling downwards as his gaze travels back to Black Hole’s head. “Baby , don’t make me beg. Just want you, again. Please.”
You’re doing a damn good job of begging already, Tree thinks to himself, but he does not dare take a step closer. All he can do is stand and watch as Black gets off, so elegant and graceful, even when on the brink of being ruined.
He wants to step in—Tree wants to place the palms of his hands on Black Hole’s knees and spread them apart as he kneels in front of him. He wants to wrap his mouth around Black Hole and suck , laughing against his skin at the irony.
But there is that part of his brain that is so convincing. There is a part of Tree’s brain that tells him that he is not moaning his name. The first time Black Hole was just answering the door, and the second time he was just answering Tree’s question.
There is a part of Tree’s brain that knows that he is being foolish, but makes him stay completely still anyways; afraid to do anything more than to stare.
It’s okay, he thinks to himself. He is hot already, red in the face from just imaging the way Black Hole’s hands have once caressed his skin. He’s fine with just watching.
He will take whatever bread crumbs he is offered, he thinks, if only to see Black Hole exactly like this. Tree does not care if Black Hole is imagining someone else at his feet, and he does not care if they wake up and Black Hole does not remember any of this—he will treasure whatever he has like it is the sickly sweet ambrosia itself; nectar from the Gods. He will take whatever Black Hole is willing to give, no matter how miniscule.
But then Black Hole whines, lower body jerking upwards in an attempt to find any sort of friction. “Tree. Please.”
And, well. Tree’s not going to be picky. That’s confirmation enough for him.
“Black Hole,” he says softly, taking another step forward. Then another. “Is this all for me, dear? Really?”
Black Hole doesn’t seem to notice him, his gaze focused on whatever Tree he’s imagining on the ground between his legs. Tree doesn’t take much offense to this; he is more than content to squat close to the ground, hand hovering in the air as he examines the curve of Black Hole’s body.
He was not lying when he said that he was more than fine with just watching—he cannot see the way Black Hole’s eyes squint in mirth, but he sees the way Black Hole’s head is thrown back with each rise of his chest, and he feels hot when watching as bones and muscles peak through collarbones and shoulder blades. It’s a human form that is not even human, but still one of the hottest thing’s Tree has ever had the pleasure of seeing.
“Black Hole,” he says again, a broken record. “Look at me, dear.”
Tree places a hand against Black Hole’s knee, his skin cool to the touch. Black Hole jerks again at the contact, head twisting to look at Tree. Tree can feel Black Hole’s eyes against his skin, gaze piercing against his hand and against his wrist, traveling upwards to his head. It feels heavy in a good way, Tree thinks as he massages Black Hole’s knee: his gaze feels dangerous. Intoxicating.
“Tree,” Black Hole manages, more whisper than words. Tree gets down on one knee, gentle and patient as he teasingly places another hand against Black Hole’s thigh. One of Black Hole’s hands travels from his dick to Tree’s face, where he cups the side of Tree’s head with his hand. “You look different.”
“I have that effect on people,” Tree murmurs, pressing a kiss against the inner side of Black Hole’s leg, a few inches above the side of his knee. It’s not close enough to his inner thigh to draw a reaction out of Black Hole, but the boy above him lets out a shuddered excuse for a sigh nonetheless.
“Better not,” Black Hole manages, and Tree looks up at him through his lashes as he presses his unoccupied hand against Black Hole’s other leg, where he pushes it away from his face. Black Hole inhales through what seems to be an invisible nose at this, and Tree grins at him. “I best be the only one you’re making— who’s making —you are.”
Tree presses another kiss against Black Hole’s inner leg, effectively shutting him up. “You have such a way with words, my dear,” he manages, nothing more than a warm breath against cool skin.
Black Hole seems to freeze and melt at the exact same time, putty in Tree’s hands. The hand that is rested against Tree’s cheek travels against his skin and towards his hair, where it pulls through curls in a mess of knots and slight aches.
Tree finds himself inhaling ever so slightly at each tug, tiny spears against his scalp. It feels good when Black Hole does it, he thinks; it feels good when Black Hole does anything.
“So good,” Black Hole praises, and Tree wonders how long he’s been asleep. He wonders how long Black Hole has been left alone, in his own hotel room, with nothing but a faux image of Tree and his own hand. “Please. Please.”
“Use your words, dear,” Tree hums against his thigh, and Black Hole makes a noise of enjoyment when Tree’s lips travel up his thigh, closer towards his achingly hard member. “I don’t know what you want me to give you.”
“You,” Black Hole pleads almost instantly. He jerks his hips forward at the word, the end of his cock brushing against the side of Tree’s ear. “Your mouth, if you’re willing. Please. I’ll do anything, I swear.”
Tree pulls his mouth away from the inner side of Black Hole’s thigh, removing his hand from his skin (he does not miss the way Black Hole curses at the lack of skin-on-skin contact. He relishes the way he removes his hand from his dick and sticks his knuckles in his mouth, quieting any moans. Tree wonders if he does this on instinct. Tree wonders how many times Black Hole has jerked off to the idea of him when he was only a few floors above his head) and pressing it against his ear. Black Hole notices this, and the hand that was once in Tree’s hair travels to hold Tree’s ear. “‘M sorry, that won’t happen again. Sorry.”
“It better not,” Tree says, glaring at Black Hole for a moment more. “I thought you said you were going to do anything, Black Hole. Now I’m learning that you can’t even behave?”
“Please,” Black Hole cries again, such a pretty little beggar.
Tree hesitates for a moment more, before accepting Black Hole’s silent apology (he figures he doesn’t want Black Hole to wake up before he even has the chance to suck him off. He doesn’t know if he’ll be able to have all of this outside of the mindscape; he doesn’t know if Black Hole will even remember all of this). He presses his hand against the inner side of Black Hole’s upper thigh, running his nails lightly against the skin of his legs. Black Hole shivers at this, and Tree gleams up at him.
He leans in after a second, resting right in front of the tip of Black Hole’s dick. He watches as Black Hole involuntarily thrusts forward in small movements, motivated by the soft breath of Tree against his cock. It glimmers in what little light Black Hole gives off, pre-cum causing it to sparkle like its namesake.
Tree starts with a small— teasing —lick of the end of his dick, flinching at the mouthful of pre-cum he swallows. The bitter feeling taste heavy on his tongue, and he pauses for a moment before doing it again, licking up the bottom side of Black Hole’s cock.
He must be doing something right, because Black Hole’s breathing becomes shaky; heavy.
Motivated by Black Hole’s reaction, Tree places the end of the dick in between his lips, letting it rest in his mouth for a moment. He moves his tongue along the underside of it once more, letting the weight settle in his mouth as he adjusts his jaw to take in the width.
After a seconds pause, he continues to swallow the length of Black Hole’s cock, letting it travel down his throat as he looks up at his friend through fluttering lashes.
Tree gets to watch as Black Hole shakes as he first takes him in his mouth, knuckles leaving his own in favor of going to Tree’s hair, where he wraps his fingers around green locs. He gets to watch as Black Hole lets out a full-body moan when the tip of his cock hits the back of Tree’s throat, hand tightening where it rests in Tree’s hair. He gets to watch every little thing Black Hole does as he is pushed closer and closer to his point of climax; he gets to hear the gasps and see the way his muscles move and gets to taste the pre-cum, burning like acid in the back of his throat.
Black Hole’s hand tightens in Tree’s hair, and Tree wonders why they’ve never done this before.
He taps a finger against the skin of Black Hole’s inner thigh, looking up at him from where he’s kneeling with his mouth around his dick. Black Hole removes his other hand from the side of Tree’s head and moves it to the other side of his scalp, digging his nails into the skin at the top of his hair.
Tree smiles around his dick, the ends of his teeth softly grazing against the bottom of his cock. Black Hole (finally, Tree thinks to himself, mouth open as he gleams so prettily) lets out a verbal moan at the feeling, unable to stop himself from jerking forward as his upper body leans backward. Tree watches as Black Hole’s eyes cloud for a moment, the tip of his dick hitting the back of his throat sharp enough to make Tree gasp.
That only seems to encourage him more, for the feeling of Tree gasping around his cock causes him to thrust forward once again. Tree closes his eyes in pleasure, letting the feeling of Black Hole’s hands pull him forward. He lets himself be used as nothing more than a tool in Black Hole’s dream—a means to wake up by.
Black Hole pulls him forward with every thrust, the back of Tree’s throat meeting his cock in equal succession. When Tree feels Black Hole deep in the back of his mouth, and Black Hole holds him by his hair long enough that Tree can feel hair against his nose, he cannot help but moan; letting the sound rumble out of him in waves, like a full body shiver.
Black Hole gasps in response, hands quivering from their position in Tree’s hair as he thrusts a little faster, encouraged by the feeling of Tree—moaning and all around him and at the tip of his cock. Tree wonders if his hands are as good as this; as good as Tree can be in real life, if Black Hole only gave him more than a second glance.
Tree moans again, if only at the idea.
And that’s all it takes, really. Tree is moaning (a wrecked sound, voice ruined from the raw skin near the back of his throat, where Black Hole’s dick had met it’s target) and Black Hole is thrusting into his mouth at a rapid speed and they are both content. This is more than they are used to, more than they could ever ask for.
Black Hole tries to pull Tree’s head away from his cock using his grip on his hair, but Tree wants every little crumb Black Hole is willing to give him, and he digs his feet against the floor and keeps his mouth around Black Hole’s cock. He nods only slightly, looking up at Black Hole with the softest eyes he can manage.
That is all it takes to make Black Hole reach his climax. He cums into Tree with a sharp gasp, hand traveling to the back of Tree’s head as the other boy swallows the bitter liquid that travels down the inside of his mouth, running heavy against his tongue.
“Tree,” he manages once again, and Tree pulls away from him with a small smile.
It would be sweet, he thinks, if not for the way that Black Hole is starting to blur at the edges.
He’s starting to wake up. Tree realizes with a gasp, and he is desperate for nothing if not one more crumb. He presses a hand against Black Hole’s thighs and he presses kisses against his inner legs and he throws his arms around him like he is about to go to war. Tree wishes he could kiss his mouth—could find lips in the abyss where everything else goes to die. He wishes he could swim through the darkness and find the only living thing there.
“I love you,” he says, when the room is beginning to get more light than dark. He does not care if Black Hole is awake enough to hear him now, and he does not care if Black Hole really will remember this when the challenge has ended.
He just needs to hear himself say it out loud, if not to sound insane. “I love you.”
And with that, Black Hole is gone from the mindscape.
Tree does not realize he is crying until he brings a hand to his cheek and wipes away something wet. He blinks, and when he pulls his hand away to look at the tears, he sees Four and X and Pencil in front of him, staring at him as if he’s insane.
“Oh, he’s a crier!” X exclaims, before running over and wrapping their arms around Tree’s shoulders. Four glares at him and mutters something underneath their breath, and Tree almost laughs at the irony. If only Four knew what Tree and Black Hole had been doing in the mindscape.
If only.
“Black Hole, Tree,” Four says, gesturing to a newly installed chalkboard. At the very top are their names, highlighted in blue and underlined four times in white. “You are the winners of this challenge—” and when X hugs Tree tighter in response, Four only seems to become less happy “—Congratulations. Go away.”
Tree finds himself turning to glance at Black Hole, who stands where he stood before the challenge, staring at the ground with furrowed brows. He holds his head in one of his hands, and Tree is not an idiot.
Black Hole does not look at him; does not stare at him.
He does not remember what happened in the mindscape. It is all nothing more than a dream to him.
Tree tells himself that he doesn’t care. He will take the little crumbs of information he has been granted and he will hold it close to his chest like a dying bird. He will take care of it and he will water it and he will love it like it is his own. He will remember it like it is more himself than Black Hole.
That’s all he has, he thinks. Nothing but crumbs.