Private Misery Makes Strange Bedfellows

[Arthur Barrett]

It was quiet in Liza's apartment. After the chaos that passed for an evening, the others had parted ways and gone to bed. Arthur was simply too drunk (and to heavy) to move, and so there he lay face down on the carpet, covered in a blanket.

Some time in the middle of the night, he awoke. Most beasts would be worried if they awoke in a dark room, and couldn't remember how they got there or why everything hurt. Arthur couldn't remember the specifics, but he knew the reason.

He'd been drinking again.

His spirits were so crushed he couldn't even bother to worry, much less shift into a more comfortable position. There he lay for hours, motionless, listening to the rhythmic ticking of the clock on the wall. His normally chatty mind was absolutely silent -- a mercy he cherished.

After some time, Arthur realized there was a soft hissing noise. Dying coals lay in the fireplace, radiating a pleasant warmth, and the faintest dull red glow. Slowly, he pieced the puzzle together. The vixen that had stitched him together, leaving an angry stinging trail down his back. The Smudgie's apartment. Berchar, of all beasts. Gates, but he'd have excuses and apologies to make in the morning.

As he currently laid, the marten's chin was digging uncomfortably into the floor. But shifting didn't fix anything -- the old pain in his neck started to act up. There had to be a pillow somewhere. With one arm (on the less injured side) Arthur groped around in the dark until he found something soft. Wrapping his paw around it, he dragged it in close, and rolled over on it with a huff. It was surprisingly heavy for a pillow, and had all manner of tassles and... other strange design choices. Did anyone ever try sleeping on this thing before they made it? Arthur nestled his head down atop the pillow, and groaned as he finally relaxed upon it.

Tomorrow was going to be awful.

@Berchar Fleetfoot

 

[Berchar Fleetfoot]

It had been a peculiar day, all told: his evening had started with being thrown into a canal and ended with discovering not only an old friend but forging new connections. Add on top of that the complexities of medical necessity and alcohol and it has ranged from fraught to downright lovely. Berchar was, by all accounts, quite a lonely soul, and the kindness of Liza and Amnesty had proved a balm he hadn’t known he had needed.

In line with such kindness, Liza had permitted him to stay overnight both to avoid walking through the Slups at night and to keep an eye on Arthur. The marten seemed to have fallen into a deep enough sleep, but there was always the risk of him stirring and, potentially, deciding to wander. Best he had some company for the night, then, lest he reopen those wounds so soon again.

All things considered the jerboa was both exhausted from the day and wired: being so, he hadn’t dropped off until the early hours. Dozing, he had failed initially to notice Arthur stir. In fact he didn’t notice a thing, not until a paw descended as if from nowhere and dragged him.

Berchar startled, body stiffening in alarm as his now-waking mind struggled to process. There was weight, and warmth, and –

Arthur was…hugging him? Using him as a pillow? The air was momentarily squeezed out of him by the pressure, but Berchar’s breathing adjusted. Well, rather he held his breath.

What was he supposed to do now?! Eyes wide behind spectacles now askew (having fallen asleep with them on to leave oh-so flattering grooves either side of his muzzle) the jerboa stared at the ceiling, then craned his neck to the marten. Waking him fully seemed such a shame, but would there not come more shame in the morning if he said nothing?

Nerving himself, Berchar began first with a squeaky whisper. “A-Arthur? Uhm- Arthur...? Can you…?”

 

[Arthur Barrett]

As the others had learned attempting to move him, Arthur was a particularly heavy beast. But the marten wasn't fat by any means, he just was a strong and big boned beast. Others had likened his (rare and vanishing) embraces to "being squeezed by a dense loaf of bread", or "hugging a furry brick". Berchar might have his own analogies as Arthur squeezed his arms around his torso, and nestled his head against his chest.

But then the marten's ears twitched. Not only did this pillow have a heartbeat, it talked.

Arthur lifted his head in confusion, and looked down at the jerboa he was currently smooshing into the carpet. "...Berchar? Hellgatesh!" But such an inebriated state allowed him some boyish liberties, and a playful grin spread over his muzzle. "Wash I that cheap a date?" he asked, before rolling off onto his back.

"Ffffhhhhh!!!" he hissed. His shoulder did not like that. But after a minute, he chuckled again. "M-mebbe that's why I had shuch tr'bles dating... too fat to have a good time wiffout blowing the rent budget on one night's booze..."