It was a design that, Eles was sure, wouldn't make any sense to anyone else. And for that, he was fairly confident that some overhyped art critic would stare at it for a solid fifteen minutes before deciding that it spoke of the artist's fatalism, it reduced youth to a vapid and self-obsessed meandering, their every action and purchase and choice tying back into how it reflected in themselves. Or something. In truth, Eles didn't have a damn clue what an art critic would say, but he liked to pretend they'd think more highly of it than it deserved. Like the Banksy art but without the eye-watering stacks of cash.

Suspended above him, from what used to be a floor lamp until he disassembled the shade and lightbulb, was the central piece of the mobile: a series of triangular mirror scraps and shards of glass fitted together in that coat hanger shape, and adhered to one another in gold. Eles ignored it as it slowly oscillated, occasionally reflecting his own appearance in its surfaces.

One of the three planned threads was already finished. It looked like a Vegas nightmare, if he looked upon it without context. Strung together as if caught in a spider's web of fishing line, was a neon flamingo sign with an earring post attached to it, a set of keys to ******** knows what but it looked like one might have been a house key, a pink high heel lighter with an overwrought post-it attached to the bottom, a pack of cigarettes, an Ed Hardy bic lighter, and a taco bell guitar pick. The end of it dangled with another few feet of fishing line, for which he had a few plans and one last object to tie the scene together.

The second thread sat next to him, half-finished. It included a fuzzy calculator, a few folded journal entries from some dead people whose names Eles never recognized, the broken handle of a teacup that had gotten ruined one very frisky night, a few opened wrappers that had been run through with fishing line, a ticket stub from Death Becomes Her, with an astonishing number of metal eyelets used to protect the items from the fishing line or vice versa. Waiting to be added was a coaster from that awful bar they'd gone to that only served blue drinks, but Eles struggled to drill the hole in it without retching a little.

The final thread was presently in his hands and being woven between his fingers. This one featured a ball of blue painter's tape, an empty bottle of bleach, an unfortunate-looking bill for an urgent care visit, and a knife with flecks of rust on the edge. Carefully, he wound the fishing line around a pencil after having added a spiral groove to it. Then, that thread laced through the remains of a pair of leggings that had been ripped at the knee and further abused.

Then it was time enough to assemble the damned thing. The first thread went on the left of the mobile, the second in the center, and the third on the right. Carefully, he began to braid them together in a loose manner toward the bottom, until the fishing line could be tightened into a more coherent pattern. That was when he wove in the red scarf. When he had about a third of its length left, he tied that scarf around what was decidedly the epitome of Malory's existence: a labubu.

After taking a moment to check it over, Eles blew out a sigh. It was odd, kind of dumb, and definitely useless. In all, a perfect fit for his boy. It seemed a shame to have to pack it all away, but such was the tradition around birthdays. Once he removed it from its makeshift stand, Eles lowered the collection of junk into an open chest that was then closed, locked, and lovingly wrapped in far more caution tape than the thing could have possibly needed. Then he pushed it until the chest sat extremely in the way of Malory's expansive wardrobe and decided that was good enough.

HAPPY ******** BIRTHDAY, he wrote on it in metallic silver Sharpie.