Side by side, two teens were running in place before a water faucet and a poster. They couldn't be more different from one another if they tried.

One was all muscles. Tall and chiseled, with ginger hair and deep, blue, eyes. He had a straight nose and high cheekbones. His face was slightly tanned, as was the rest of his skin, although no one would tell, seeing that he was covered in a standard adventurer's uniform.

The other teen, was in shorts and t-shirt, already sweaty. His blonde hair sticking to his forehead and obscuring his green eyes. Maybe the girls who stopped to gawk at them could have given him the time of day, too. If he was not chubby, his fat jiggling with every move he made.

But there was one thing the two had in common. They both looked relaxed and were engaged in a conversation with one another.

"My party disbanded. The rogue doesn't want to go on without a healer," Morris said, a bit downcast, but not by much. "And those are hard to come by. I mean. Who would say no to a cozy job at a clinic for this?"

Morris pointed at his adventurer's uniform. Standard form-hugging beige pants and a green blouse with a scarf around the neck.  Leander had wanted to wear one of those, too. But they hadn't had anything in his size back at the guildhall.

"I am a healer," Leander blurted. "But only rank F."

"Really? And you took care of a dungeon all by yourself?" There was no mocking in Morris's voice. Rather, genuine amazement.

"The dungeon was just created," Leander downplayed his achievement. Truly, taking care of a couple of hamsters was nothing to boast about.

"Still, healers are not known for being able to do dungeon delving by themselves. You are something else. Hey, Leander, do you have a spot in your party?" Now, if anyone else but Morris had asked that question, Leander would have frowned and ignored them. But he knew better than to think that Morris was mocking him. The teen was too goodhearted for that.

"I don't have a party," Leander managed to get out, and then he pointedly went back to staring at the poster.

"Well, then, we can form one. I am a berserker, we just need a tank and a rogue, and we will be all set to go back to the slime dungeon!" Leander blinked. With a dead weight like him, how was Morris expecting to get a tank and a rogue?

"I will just hold you back," murmured Leander as he didn't take his eyes off the poster.

"Nonsense. I am just rank B, so we are not that different in rank. We have room to grow. Think on it," the final sand grain fell down, and Morris clapped him on the shoulder. "Same time, same place?"

"Sure," Leander managed to get out, winded and panting, and they slowly went their separate ways. As Leander walked to the library, he couldn't help but think that this was his chance. For a friendship and a party, both.

With a high rank like his, Morris would certainly find a party sooner, rather than later. And then, Leander would be stuck watching from the sidelines.

He will sleep on it, and, tomorrow, will give his answer. Today, he went and looked at more mana related procedures. Something he had never tried before.

There were many things to look through. Regrowing eyeballs had a time limit and looked dead useful, so, Leander opened the heavy tome and began learning about the different areas of the eye.

The book claimed that, as long as the optic nerve was not damaged, an eye could either be regrown, which took a lot of mana, or transplanted, which meant nimble fingers. As a side note, the author suggested crocheting to build up finger dexterity.

Leander went to the practicing room and took yarn and needles and began to knit. He had known how for a very long time, but haven't spent enough time on the craft.

Before he knew it, he had made a scarf. A nice blue color close to Morris's eyes. Deciding it would be a waste to throw the scarf away, he took it, paid for the yarn, and went back to the inn.

That night, he tossed and turned as he dreamed about going home with just the hamster dungeon to his name. Of his mother making him work in the town's clinic and in the restaurant in his spare time.

And, worse, of him eating cake and fried banana and all kinds of sweets. All that without doing his thirty-minute sessions. Until, finally, he got so obese he couldn't get up from bed, took to drinking, and died. His bed soiled.  

"No!" Leander screamed as he woke up from the nightmare, drenched in sweat. "Never again!"

He had nothing to lose and everything to gain. He would stick to his new routine, make it a habit. But, now, he had a craving for something sweet.

Leander shook his head like a wet dog. No, cake or happiness! There was no middle ground. But, there was an alternative to cake. Morris had told him what it was: a smoothie.

The blonde went to the inn's kitchen and made himself a cup of mashed banana with milk. He didn't add sugar. Morris had said nothing about sugar and, so, he wasn't going to add any.

He drank, his brain registering the sweet taste and giving him a cocktail of signals that made him feel good. But, unlike the other times, he didn't feel guilty afterwards. This was a healthy snack, no, a healthy drink. He had nothing to feel guilty over.

With the smoothie in his belly, he went back to bed. He slept much easier than before, actually managing not to dream about anything in particular.

He barely managed to wait until the meeting time, and actually walked to the faucet with the poster much earlier than he had to. Morris was already waiting for him there, and that gave Leander courage.