Coffee on Wednesdays
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Warning! Warning! Warning!
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This story contains all those things your mom and dad said they'd tell you about when you grew up, in hopes you'd never ask again. Avert your eyes, lest this missage burns itself into your retinas, for I can't be held accountable for your marred purity!
And all the rest. You know the deal. 18 blah blah don't read blah blah legal blah blah...
Okay, enough on with the story.
This was written as a commission for the overly patient FoxieTheWinddragon.
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Warning! Warning! Warning!
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Coffee on Wednesdays
Each individual note floated out into the vast empty space of the Bernstein Auditorium as Foxie tickled the ivories. The grand piano sang its high treble and growled out its low bass with each soaring passage of Rhapsody in Blue. He'd always liked playing Gershwin. The songs were complex, each part of the whole taking on a new rhythm and new personality until the song wasn't just one song, but a multitude, each sung in time and harmony with each other. He swayed in time with the song, fast, then slower, the tempo rising and falling with the emotion and voice of its composer.
Rising and falling, swaying back and forth, and then he stopped dead. One of the pianist's expressive ear flaps flitted forward for a moment, and he hit the last note four or five times. D-sharp, once, twice, then his fingers flicked up and down the keys, sounding higher and lower d-sharps. It was just slightly flat, half a sliver of a pitch too low. With a grumble, Foxie stood and reached under the slanted lid and tugged on the handle of his tuning hammer. With one hand deep in the innards of the instrument, his pinkie hit d-sharp again, quickly repeating it to keep the taut piano wire sounding. It slid up in tone, then back down as the tuning hammer twisted. Back and forth the pitch swung, until with five lightning-quick strikes, Foxie leaned back with a smile.
Standing by the concert grand on stage, Foxie gave an ironic bow towards the vast rows of seats that stretched almost to the point of absurdity in the mammoth amphitheater. On a good night, thousands would stream in to see and hear and experience. Tonight, Foxie's audience of zero responded to his grandstanding in the only way it could: silence.
Out of his bag came the pitch-meter. By this point, it was just a formality, but it was the professional touch that ensured his invitation back to tune again. Fingers crawled up the octaves like acrobatic spiders while his eyes watched the numbers on the meter. It wasn't a perfect job, but it was a good one, and the keys were singing for him in the way that made the base of his skull buzz like it was humming in harmonics.
"Steve, you're all set!" Foxie called off-stage, and the mouse that'd been working on set-ropes as thick as his tail walked into the bright glare of the stage.
"Thanks Franklin. How much do we owe you?"
"One-oh-five for the tune. Send me a check, I don't need it now. Anyway, I told you it's Foxie." Back into the bag went his tools, the pitch meter, the electric tone generator, and the inappropriately named tuning hammer.
"Sorry," the mouse apologized by reflex. "It's just that you're not a fox. It just feels strange to call you that."
Foxie spun on the stool and stood. He wasn't exactly tall for his species, but even at average dragon height he towered over the diminutive stage hand. "I get that a lot. It's just a name, though, Steve." He held his hand down to shake, and Steve reached up to grasp it.
Without warning, Foxie pulled the mouse up into an impromptu hug. Steve gasped in surprise, squirming uncertainly in Foxie's strong grip. His high pitched complaint echoed across the stage, the acoustics of the auditorium carrying the whisper-loud squeak as loudly as a shout. "Foxie! Put me down! No one here knows that-"
"And no one's watching. They all went home half an hour ago." Foxie placed the rodent back on his feet and stood, a sly smirk arcing across his snout.
"Fine for you to say, it's not your job on the line here."
"Well, since you're the one who calls me in, actually, it is." He paused for a moment. "Anyway, they wouldn't fire you. You're worth your weight in gold here."
"Maybe, maybe." The mouse demurred nervously. He hesitated for a moment, then glanced up. "We still on for tonight?"
The smirk never left Foxie's face. "Of course. I have half a bottle of red with your name on it. Are you still in, though? It's not too late to back out."
"No. No, I've been looking forward to it all week." The rodent's whiskers twitched uncertainly. His ears were still flicking about, searching for any sign they'd been caught. "I should..." The sentence was left unfinished. With a glance to the sides, Steve spun in place and scampered out of the limelight and into the comfortable blackness off-stage With a parting smile, Foxie gathered his tool bag and sauntered through the empty auditorium and out into the cold night.
The brisk Portland air gusted through his fur, but he paid it no mind. It wasn't nearly cold enough to penetrate his thick hide. Passer-byes passed by, as they were wont to do, clad in late autumn gear in yellows and blues and reds that blended together like a scrambled rainbow flowing down the sidewalks. Foxie joined them, blending into the crowd without disturbance.
His final destination was a small coffee shop, not four blocks away, but he couldn't take a direct route. First, he stopped at Jeff's apartment. Jeff wouldn't mind, he was out of town anyway. He was always out of town these days. Ah well, Foxie reminisced. While the cat's away... He tossed his backpack down on the desk, disrupting a pile of Jeff's old passports. Foxie had peeked inside once or twice when Jeff wasn't looking. They were full of stamps from exotic locations.
Foxie opened the bag, and out came a fresh set of clothes: black khakis and a stylish shirt. Over that went an antique waistcoat. Where Franklin the Piano Tuner entered, five minutes later Foxie the cultured dilettante exited.
Next target was a small chocolatier. Three small boxes of chocolates were fished from behind the counter, embossed with gold foil and fancy as his evening outfit. No money changed hands. It rarely did when Foxie was present. Rodney worked for the chocolatiers, and he owed Foxie a favor.
After the chocolate came Hannah at the gym, then Ollie down at the bicycle repair shop. For the first, a box of chocolates and an apology for missing the party last weekend. For the second, a peck on the cheek and a promise to help watch the kids next week for a favor. Each was checked off of his mental dossier, the list of friends owed and favors tendered. That alone was Foxie's currency, nourishment, and life.
At one point, a friend had asked him what mattered in life. It'd been a long evening, and he'd been plied first with a fine dinner, then with fine wine, then lastly with fine company. In the lax inhibitions of the late evening, Foxie's response had been the truth, at least as far as he saw it. "Why, each other, of course. I am measured solely on the love of my friends. Without them, I would cease to exist." And he'd meant it, each and every word. He worshiped that aspect of life, prayed to it as a priest before an altar. His friends were his lifeblood, and they flowed strongly through his veins.
By the time he reached the coffee shop, most of the evening crowd had already meandered off. Half the tables were occupied, most by couples or threesomes, but one stood out. Towards the center of the shop, a table sat with two stools and one mouse, who sat and sipped at a steaming cup every few moments. Foxie saw him through the front window and winced.
"I hope I haven't left you waiting too long?" He said as he approached the table. Steve glanced up, a sour frown on his face.
"Only an hour. I thought you were heading straight here after."
"Straight-ish." Foxie gave an inward sigh. "I'm sorry. I'll make it up to you, though."
The mouse scowled into his coffee. "I doubt that. You're never on time, Foxie. Look, maybe I should go..."
"No, stay. Steve, sit down for a moment." Foxie sat at the table. A barista passed, and he nodded at her. He'd have the usual, as always. "I did have a few chores to take care of on the way."
"An hours worth?"
"Well, I had a few friends to catch up with."
Steve leaned back and shook his head. "You're not making this any better. I don't seem to rate amongst your friends, Foxie. I just want to feel important once in a while, and-"
Foxie interrupted the self-centered rant with a box of luxurious chocolates slid across the table. On its front, an embossed card gleamed Steve's name in gold foil. The mouse slowly wound down into silence.
"Is that..."
"I told you I had a few chores to run."
The mouse was quiet for a moment, then a brilliant smile slid across his face. "Have I ever told you how infuriatingly impossible you are, Foxie?"
"Every time we meet. Am I forgiven?"
"Doubly and triply so. Does it have coconut ones?"
Foxie lifted the lid, revealing hand-swirled delicacies to the warm coffee house air. He twisted the lid and read the inside surface. "The ones with the white dots on top, square ones."
The barista returned with a foaming mug for Foxie, while Steve snatched a chocolate from the box and popped it into his mouth. He closed his eyes and let the creamy delight melt on his tongue. "Ooh Oh, those are good."
"I knew you'd like them."
"Sometimes I think you know me better than I know myself, Foxie."
"Maybe I do." The dragon gave a flirtatious wink, then took his first sip from the steaming cup.
The evening passed with tidbits of rumor being devoured just as quickly as the tidbits of chocolate. Steve knew Jimmy (who was friends with Karl and Anthony) and had heard that Jill... The stories drew frustrated frowns and giddy smiles, and Foxie cataloged them each in his cavernous mental archives. Everything came in handy eventually.
The sun was long set by the time the two left the shop, and the barista flipped the "open" sign to "closed" behind them as they passed. The Portland night was cold, but both of them had dressed for it. The flood of people had stemmed to just a trickle. Downtown life had started to fade after the war had started. Everyone knew someone who was overseas, and anyone who was left home had to deal with the curfews. They weren't enforced, everyone knew that, but just the fact that they existed served to reduce night-life to a ghost town.
"Foxie, we should go inside somewhere. It's late." Steve stammered uncertainly. He was gazing up and down the street, certain at any moment the police would arrive with their black vans and shiny badges and condescending looks.
"Relax, Steve." Foxie strutted down towards the harbor. The night was young, and there was nothing to fear out here in the dark. Even if they were picked up, he had friends in the police, who'd make the whole problem just go away.
"But, we-"
Foxie turned around and put his finger to Steve's neck. His blunt claw dug down through the thick fur, and sitting snugly against the skin, it found a thin collar. "Oh, you naughty thing. Have you been wearing this all day?"
The sudden change of topic startled Steve into silence. Slowly, he nodded, standing stock-still as the finger tugged at the fetish wear slightly.
Foxie chuckled, then reached into a pocket. "Well, no one can really blame you for being out past curfew when you're being led by a line." He pulled a thin chain out and flashed the clasp on the end meaningfully.
"Foxie, not out in public, I..."
"You wore that collar all day, Stevie." The dragon leaned in close. His breath tickled the mouse's radar-dish ears. "I know why you did that. You like being seen. You want to be led around like a pet on a leash. I know you better than you know yourself, remember?" The mouse quivered, but when the clasp closed around the collar and pulled at his neck with an insistent little tug, he gave an excited gasp. Foxie smiled to himself. A friend's happiness was a stronger vintage than any fine wine.
With a second tug, Foxie led the way down towards the waterfront. He knew this great little secluded grotto, hidden behind a concrete retaining wall that supported the bike path. He'd take the mouse down by the water and start the night properly. He'd supply the wine, a nice bottle of red that a friend had saved for him from auction. When he'd taken the edge off of the mouse's nerves, he'd treat him to a night exploring all of the mouse's kinks that he was too afraid to reveal. It was shaping up to be a beautiful night. With a whistle of the first few bars of a song, he tugged the mouse down the hill.
Behind him, a high and slightly reedy voice tentatively broke into song. "Birds singing in the sycamore tree... Dream a little dream of me." Foxie hadn't thought about the tune he was whistling, but Steve had obviously picked it up. Foxie glanced around. Just a few paces back at the extent of his lead, the mouse's gait had gone from his normal nervous skittering to a proud prancing. Foxie wondered if Steve realized how much his personality changed when the chain was around his neck. Humming along as Steve pranced and sang behind him, Foxie lost himself in the chilly night, letting the street lamps and the smell of the river guide him onwards.
A sharp hiss broke the serene silence of the road as Foxie passed an alley, then another voice broke in. "While I'm alone, and blue as can be..."
Foxie stopped dead in his pace, humming stopping mid-note. Behind him, Steve's voice cut out, and the leash tugged slightly. Foxie disregarded him for a moment as his ears twitched. "Jeff?"
"I haven't been away that long, Foxie. Surely you can remember me?" A hare stepped out of the shadows. His head only came to Foxie's shoulders, but the tall and attentive ears rose another foot above that. The street lamps painted him a darkly mottled brown, though Foxie knew from experience that there was gray in that pelt that the yellowish light was covering. He was clad in stylish shirt and trousers, at once both casual and respectable, and between his ears was his ever-present blue-and-white beanie. Foxie had bought it for him in London, and the hare had worn it ever since.
"Jeff!" Foxie flung himself forward, and the hare staggered under the dragon's weight. He bore it with effort, though, and after a moment balancing, returned the energetic embrace.
"I guess that means you missed me?" Jeff's smile was infectious, and even Steven, who was currently trying to climb into the dragon's shadow in humiliation, broke into a silly little grin.
"Of course I missed you. I definitely didn't expect to meet you just on the way down to the waterfront, though." The words were true enough, but while the first rush of pleasure started to fade, the vague uneasiness he always felt around Jeff started to creep in at the edges. Maybe the feeling was part of why he'd been drawn to the hare. There was the feeling that Jeff lived in a different world, one of danger and excitement, and that everyone else only existed at the sidelines.
"You're a predictable creature, Foxie." The hare leaned forward, his whiskers tickling at Foxie's muzzle as the expressive nose snuffled in front of his face. "You always go for coffee on Wednesdays."
"Hmf." Predictable? Foxie snorted at the idea and made a mental note to be somewhere else next Wednesday. "But it's not just that, I thought you weren't going to be back until next month."
"Things changed." The hare's eyes dipped evasively for a moment, following the thin chain lead dangling from Foxie's hands. "And then again, some things don't change. What have you got there, hmm?"
In the excitement of the moment, Foxie had forgotten about the mouse on the end of his leash. In flustered embarrassment, he pulled Steve around front. "Oh, so sorry. Jeff, this is Steve. Steve, Jeff."
"Charmed." The hare held out a hand. "And I assume you're Foxie's entertainment for the evening?"
Steve stammered non-committally His ears had flicked back, and at any moment his eyes sought back and forth for any opportunity to escape the attention he'd suddenly be thrust into. "I, eh... Entert... What? Yes?"
"Ah, I see." With his proffered hand ignored, Jeff instead reached down and held the mouse's jaw in his fingers. The diminutive rodent averted his eyes downward. "You do know how to pick them, don't you, Foxie."
The dragon smiled, but it froze on his face when Jeff turned to look at him. The hare was frowning. Foxie winced. Did he have to come back tonight? Tonight, he'd planned it so perfectly, from the chocolates to the wine to the waterfront to the collar, but not Jeff. Foxie could never count on the Hare. He was a tornado, a force of nature. He blew through town on the northern breeze, and left behind a bewildered wreckage. Foxie knew he should tell Jeff he was busy tonight. That tonight was different, and they could catch up tomorrow. Or next week. Or never, that would work too.
But then Jeff's fingers were on his chest, then his neck, and under his chin. Foxie's breath came short as those skilled fingers worked across terrain so familiar to them. "Have you forgotten our little arrangement, Foxie?"
When he could speak again, Foxie's voice was husky. "Steve, I'm sorry, plans for tonight have changed a little bit. If you want, we can meet up again tomorrow night-"
Jeff interrupted, eyes still locked on the dragon's snout. "Or, you can stick around and be a part of our plans. It's up to you, Steve."
Foxie tore his eyes away from the hare's intent gaze. Steve was glued to the spot. He looked nervous, surprised, maybe a little scared. Then he opened his mouth, and his voice was little more than a squeak. "I, uh..."
Jeff prompted him again with a sideways glance.
"I'd like to stay."
Slowly, Foxie closed his eyes. The hare stepped forward and took the leash from Foxie's lax grip. His fingers, those unavoidable, wicked, marvelous fingers traced down the dragon's throat, keeping him immobile Foxie wanted to move, wanted to escape the trance that the wild hare had cast over him, but those fingers, they touched and stroked and wove through his fur. It was electric, and they left trails of fire in their wake. It's just nerves, Foxie told himself. Just anticipation, and a bit of lust, and maybe just a hint of fear. But the hare's touch set him aflame, and stationary he stood, as Jeff pulled the mouse closer to him.
"So, Steve, so very glad to meet you. I don't think our previous introduction did either of us any favors. I'm Jeff, a traveling hare extra-ordinaire. I've been to every continent, and consider myself a collector of fine sights and intriguing experiences." The hare tugged once more, and Steve found himself pulled tight to Jeff's front. "And you are?"
"Steve!" The sound erupted as more of a squeak than a name. Quickly, the mouse cleared his throat and repeated it, this time with less of the panicked squeal. "Just Steve."
"Well, Just Steve, I hate to disappoint, but I believe you may have been misled by this dragon here."
The mouse was silent. The simple night's journey had hopped the rails and was quickly careening off into uncharted territory. Don't do this, Foxie begged silently. I was going to show him a good time, let him explore what it meant to be a-
"This dragon here acts confident and suave, but it's all just an act. You see..." Foxie clenched his eyes shut. Jeff's fingers closed around the sides of Foxie's neck and pulled. He resisted. He wasn't going to let this happen tonight, not in front of Steve. But resist as he might, the fingers were insistent. They tugged and stroked and squeezed expertly, as if each finger knew exactly what buttons to push. Resistance wasn't a question of "if", but of "when". With a wince, Foxie sunk to his knees in front of the hare. "You see, he's just a plaything, a toy."
Steve looked back and forth between the hare and his captive dragon. Then his eyes shot up and down the empty street. Public announcements and news could still be heard drifting down from TVs in second floor apartments, muffled by closed windows and drawn blinds. "Maybe we should go..."
"No." The hare kept his hold on the leash. For the first time, he reached out and took the mouse's arm with his free hand. Jeff pulled, and Steve followed his lead. The mouse turned around, facing directly towards Foxie with the hare's arm clasped across his chest. "Here is exactly where we should be, right now." It could have been the hare's theme. As well as Jeff knew him, Foxie knew Jeff. He acted seemed off-the-cuff and spontaneous, but Foxie knew this had all been planned.
Foxie smiled a private little smile, and Jeff's fingers slowly left his neck. Just as he'd seen the change in Steve earlier when the leash had finally tugged into place, he felt the same feeling of "place" slip over him like a comfortable mask. This was familiar, this was right. Jeff was in control again, it was safe.
In front of him, Jeff's fingers lowered and tugged at the mouse's shirt. Steve quivered a little. Jeff was good at this. In just minutes, Steve had stopped being Foxie's, and now he was the hare's. Fingers tugged at the mouse's fly, and the sharp scratching of the zipper echoed hollowly across the empty street.
Jeff's hands dived into the mouse's underwear. "Ahh, I see why you wanted to stay. Looking forward to this, aren't you, Just Steve?" Fabric pulled down until the mouse's thin length jutted outward into the night air. Jeff's fingers played around his sheath, pulling it back and fondling down around his sac. Foxie knew how skilled those fingers were. Steve was writhing in the hare's arms, and his cock was twitching, throbbing every few seconds as the fingers tickled and stroked around his crotch.
"Foxie?" He looked up. Jeff was gazing down over the mouse's shoulders. "Why don't you show your guest here just what you're best at." Foxie closed his eyes and focused on his silent rebellion. He'd held that leash, it was *his* He was the dominant one here, and the mouse had wanted to be his bottom, his submissive. They'd have wine down by the waterfront, and then Foxie would taken the perky mouse into his arms and-
And fingers traced along Foxie's jawline. He opened his eyes again. They were Jeff's, and they were stroking his chin just as he liked. They pulled slightly, and Foxie followed. Then Steve's twitching tip batted against Foxie's snout. Damn you, Jeff. He silently cursed the confident hare. Damn you, but I can't resist...
Fingers pushed against the side of his jaw, and he opened his mouth obediently. Jeff gave the mouse an encouraging nudge, and the anxiously twitching length bumped against Foxie's gums. He twisted his snout slightly, and the cock slid comfortably into his muzzle. The diminutive mouse was equally small in this department as well; Foxie was able to close his lips around the base of Steve's cock. Above him, he heard the mouse's squeaky sigh. Then, guided by Jeff, the mouse's hands closed around Foxie's snout, and his hips pulled back for a jerky thrust.
Damning Jeff for his easy-going confidence and superiority, Foxie still couldn't hide his natural exuberance for cock-sucking. His lips clenched and squeezed around the thin length that slid between them as Steve humped. He tilted his head slightly, and the sensitive tip rolled back and forth across the washboard roof of his mouth. His tongue slipped out along the underside of the shaft and lapped at the mouse's sac every few strokes. For all that Foxie wanted to show his dominant side, yearned to be the top, he had a naturally gifted muzzle, and Steve was being treated to most of its many tricks of the trades.
"As I said, he's just a toy. I'm sorry if he deceived you, Steve. I hope you aren't disappointed." Jeff's voice was displaced. He wasn't behind the mouse anymore. The squeezing around Foxie's muzzle to keep his lips tight, and the erratic thrusting that pushed the slim shaft repeatedly against his tongue was all Steve. He didn't need guidance anymore, instinct had taken over. But if Jeff wasn't there anymore, what was he doing?
The question was answered just a second later as firm hands pulled at Foxie's tail. The motion pulled his hips up, and with the mouse still holding his muzzle, Foxie was forced to put his hands down onto the damp sidewalk to keep himself from falling forward. He tried to glance back, but the mouse's hands held his head in place. Not here, Foxie begged silently, not out on the road, under the bright street lamps! Sucking on Steve was one thing, he could just pull his head back and *zip*, no crime and no evidence...
But Jeff was insistent. Foxie struggled. He didn't want this out on the street, where anyone glancing down from their apartments could watch. He wasn't a bottom, not so submissive that even the pet mouse was using him. And he wasn't a plaything, he wasn't a toy. He could just pull back, he was stronger than either of these two, and he could say no.
And then expert fingers ran down his tail, sliding between the layers of fabric, and running with their tingling electric caress up the length of his hind slit. The "no" on his tongue turned into a moan, and Steve let out a squeak of his own above him. The fingers tugged and pulled and found zippers and buttons, then the cool night air ruffled through Foxie's lush fur. The hands pulled at the tail, until the only comfortable position he could find was on all fours between the hare and the mouse. The fingers roamed, and then they found Foxie's rigid shaft.
He was hard. Oh, yes, Jeff had him hard, so hard and tense from the treatment that the tentative touch of the hare's leathery fingerpads on his turgid flesh made him jump. The fingers, they danced and wove, touching here and there and everywhere that made Foxie want to writhe and squirm and push against them. The fingers were master now, and the last ember glow of rebellion was snuffed out. Foxie moaned and quivered when the fingers squeezed, and panted around the thin shaft in his muzzle when the fingers disappeared.
Above, he could hear Jeff's sonorous voice cooing to the mouse. "Go ahead and use him, Steve. He likes that. He craves it. If you knew him like I know him, you'd know he treasures nothing more than this." The mouse twitched in Foxie's muzzle. Steve was humping hard now, the mouse's balls slapping against the underside of his muzzle on every thrust. At some point in the last few moments, Jeff must have also dropped his pants, because Foxie felt the hare's hot arousal pressing against his tail. He craved it. If his mouth hadn't been filled, he'd be begging for it. Jeff wasn't in the teasing mood. As soon as his tip found the smooth slit his fingers had been tracing over before, he rolled his hips forward and thrust.
Penetration was smooth, confident. Jeff didn't go slowly to let him adjust, or ask if he was ready. It was just a single long push, the tapered shaft spreading him wider and wider until he felt the fuzzy sheath squash against his slit. The hare's shaft was hot, hotter than Steve's, and larger as well. Unlike the mouse's cock, too, Foxie knew Jeff's. It was just long enough to touch something inside that made him want to squirm, and thick enough at the base that he felt just a slight burn on the first three or four strokes. He knew Jeff's shaft, he'd felt it inside him in London, and in Tokyo, and in Melbourne that one evening after the cruise. Jeff had taken him to all those exotic locations, and in each one, they'd found somewhere just out of the way, when no one was looking, and Jeff would take him, just like this. One quick thrust, then he'd pull all the way out, making Foxie wonder when he'd...
The dragon winced as the shaft thrust again, spreading him wide. Jeff's hands clasped his hips, and the shaft pistoned again. Foxie growled around the mouse's twitching shaft, and Steve squeaked again. He liked that, did he? Foxie growled again, and the mouse twitched for him. "Just like that, Steve," Jeff whispered above him, "you can use him as hard as you'd like. He's a tough dragon, he can take it." The mouse squeezed around Foxie's snout. The hands were making it hard to breathe.
Foxie glanced up, gasping for breath. Above him, Jeff pulled slowly at the leash. In the trance of bliss, Steve followed it blindly. The mouse was panting, eager, excited to within an inch of release. Then Jeff pulled him forward until the mouse's lips met his. The mouse's pants muffled as the hare kissed him passionately, lips locked as Jeff's arms wrapped around his shoulders, pulling him into a tight embrace. The mouse let out a muffled squeal, and his cock jerked wetly in Foxie's mouth. A hot gush of bitter liquid splashed across Foxie's tongue quickly followed by a second, then a third. Jeff held Steve still while his hips rolled four or five times in sharp humps. Then, with a muffled moan that matched the mouse's, the hare's tapered shaft jerked in Foxie's slit. He could feel the slimy liquid coating his insides, turning the smooth friction of flesh on flesh almost silky. Twitching, throbbing, the two of them shared their pleasure with each other above their shared plaything.
Slowly, as the mouse's orgasm began to fade, Jeff let him lean back from the kiss. Steve's hand's unwrapped themselves from around Foxie's muzzle, but were quickly replaced by the hare's. The message was clear. With his eyes meeting Jeff's gaze above him, Steve carefully swallowed around the mouse's retreating cock. Steve gave a sensitive little jump, then staggered backwards against the store front they'd fucked in front of. The silver chain dangled from his leash, its end released and unattended.
Jeff quickly pulled back, leaving himself dangling in the cool air as he stood. He was control and confidence incarnate. "Mmm, glad I met you, Steve."
The mouse glanced down. His trousers were open, and short dick was hanging in the breeze. No one was holding his leash. Suddenly, as if the magic spell of the night had been broken, his excited ears drooped in embarrassment With shaking hands, he quickly put himself away and buttoned up. "Thanks. I better... I should..." He stuttered, then with a panicked squeak, he dashed off into the night.
Foxie swallowed again, clearing the bitter taste from his tongue. "Damn, Jeff. I had the night all planned out, then you turn up."
"Then you obviously didn't plan well enough." The hare walked around to Foxie's front and helped the dragon to his feet, even though Foxie was still hobbled by the trousers gathered around his ankles.
"How could I?" Foxie swallowed again. The semen had given him a mild sore throat. It'd go away soon enough, he knew. "You weren't supposed to be home for months!"
The hare smiled broadly enough for the grin to almost split his face. "I decided to come home early. I missed my Foxie."
Foxie hesitated. He'd wanted to be the top, tonight. He'd wanted to be in control for once, making the decisions like the confident hare. He'd planned so precisely, had everything right. He should tell Jeff off, tell him that he wasn't always right...
But he was right. Damn him, he was right. That feeling of being controlled, the tingling of the fingers as they showed him just what he was supposed to do, manipulating him like a precious plaything...
"You're still hard there, Foxie." Jeff observed. He was right. He could still taste the mouse on his tongue, could almost feel him twitching and shivering as he shot... Then Jeff's hand closed around Foxie's arm, and pulled him into the dark alley. Within seconds, the hare pushed him backward onto the lid of a dumpster, and while the dragon lifted his legs to the side, the hare's shaft sank into him again.
Fingers caressed and stroked Foxie's shaft, and a fuzzy muzzle pressed to his own. Jeff kissed him, and on his breath Foxie could smell Steve. The bunny humped and thrust, and the fingers tugged and squeezed. Within the minute, the dragon was writhing, then a growl rose into a muffled roar as the fingers squeezed gorgeous release out of him. He clenched and twitched as hot gouts of runny semen splashed up over his waistcoat and shirt. The roar ceased in tense wheezing as the fingers squeezed in between the spurts.
Jeff pulled away from the kiss and pulled his hips back until his shaft bobbed in the air. He gave it three sharp pumps with one hand, and a thick strand of ropey cum arced up over the dragon's upturned crotch. Jeff was silent, only a single exhaled breath showing his own pleasure.
Foxie coughed and panted, trying to catch his breath. His clothes were ruined, soaked through. They'd need dry cleaning at the least, and maybe even that wouldn't fix them. He felt sore, used. Worst, they might have been seen, and that'd cost favors making the complaint from residents go away. He should really say something. "Thank you, Jeff." It was all he could say, and he meant it.
"You're welcome Foxie."
The morning clawed its way groggily into Foxie's mind. He head ached mildly. Jeff and he had shared the bottle of red after Steve had left, then shared an even stronger vintage that the hare had brought back from... From... From wherever it was he'd gone. Foxie remembered asking, but he didn't remember Jeff answering.
"Where was it that you went again, Jeff?" The words echoed around the old apartment hollowly. Sitting up from the bed, Foxie found himself in a familiar room, though it wasn't his own. Jeff's bedroom was packed with clothes, piled high on relics of his travels. There was a picture album on the side-table with pictures of the Sydney Opera house, and of the Arc de Triomphe, and of the white house. There was a Maori statuette acting as the missing leg of a broken side-table, on which a lamp, a pen, and a small stack of receipts and tickets were sitting. Foxie furtively glanced around, then picked up the top one. It read "Trenton, NJ." No wonder Jeff hadn't invited him this time; he might have turned it down just on principle.
"Trenton? What was going on out there?"
Foxie returned the ticket to the top of the pile and stood up. No response answered his second question, nor his third when he called out. "Jeff? Are you there?" A quick glance around the few rooms of the apartment confirmed the hare's absence. His vest and beanie weren't on the hook.
So he was alone. That wasn't so bad. He'd started to expect that any night with Jeff would be followed by a morning without him. The bed called to him. He had nothing planned yet today, at least not until tonight. He could laze away the morning, bask in the pale sunlight that managed to hit the bed through Jeff's south-facing window.
But that'd be irresponsible. Just like volunteer workers after a storm, Foxie had the feeling he'd need to go and clean up damage that hurricane Jeff had caused last night. A quick shower got his greyish fur clean, and a quick buff with the towel had them shining. He pulled on his trousers and stole one of Jeff's clean shirts, and by the time he left by the building's front doors, he was feeling ready to face the day.
"Calm, confident, composed..." Foxie muttered to himself, the morning mantra of the sociable. He hopped onto a passing tram and winked at the driver. She winked back at him, and gestured to the back. That'd be Lorrie, she owed him for introducing her to the girl at the casting agency. Foxie whistled another tune as he waltzed to the back, finally starting to feel chipper and eager to meet friends.
He'd hit the tailor first, then his favorite sandwich shop on the east end. He owed Jonny a good meal, so maybe he should stop by his little newspaper stand on the way there... He mused and remembered, planning his day hour-by-hour around his friends and favors. He was so engrossed in his planning that he almost missed the crowd outside Bernstein Auditorium.
It was the flash of a camera that first caught his attention. It was one of those big professional jobs, the kind carried by press and police. Attached to it was a camera, big and bulky to fit a lens that spoke of insecurities. Attached to that was a journalist, just one amongst a crowd of many that swarmed around the concert hall's front entrance. Holding them back, clad in their black and white and blue were Portland police.
Before the tram could start to brake, Foxie was already out its door. Something about the scene worried him. It shouldn't have. It was a big city, things happened all the time. Even though he had a lot of friend, he couldn't know everyone. Hell to be honest, he didn't even know mostly everyone, nor even a good percentage of everyone. It's likely that whatever this was, it had nothing to do with him. Still, he had a feeling, and he trusted his feelings.
He stumbled slightly as he landed, legs flailing to match its speed. Once he regained his composure, he staggered into the crowd. A dragon could clear quite a path for himself if he tried, and with his nerves tingling like ice was creeping across his pelt, Foxie spared no elbow or shove to push his way to the front. Within moments, he was face-to-baton with a uniformed officer.
Someone was being led into one of the little white vans. Whoever it was, they were short. Foxie could only glimpse the bare flesh of a mouse tail disappearing into the back of the vehicle before the barred window closed. "No, no, no..." He muttered to himself. It couldn't be. He willed it not to be. Then Steve's face pushed to the window, gazing out into the sea of flash-bulbs like a lost puppy.
Foxie stared in shock as the van pulled away and the cops slowly dispersed the press. No statements were made, no leads to go on. He felt lost, almost as lost as the hapless mouse had looked gazing out of the mobile prison. It'd all happened too fast, and Foxie didn't even know what "it" had been.
But then, Foxie wasn't without his own resources. Whereas the mouse was one lonely stage-hand, Foxie was known. He'd be taken to the Park street station, it was the closest. Cornelius worked there. Cornelius wasn't a nice person, and he wasn't a reliable person, but he wouldn't lie to Foxie. Not today, he wouldn't.
Before the gaggle of journalists had cleared from the concert hall's broad front, Foxie was already two blocks across and over the fence in Stuart Pierce Way, a little alley that cut across to Park street. The station was another four blocks down towards the river. He dodged and wove, cutting through passer byes like a pike through a school of perch. Just as he saw the white van pulling into the detainment yard behind the station, Foxie was dodging through the busy front door.
The station was its normal daily chaos. People formed ragged queues which seemed to be more of a suggestion than a demand, as the people at the front seemed to circulate fairly rapidly, while the people at the back tended to stay at the back indefinitely. There were workers and lawyers, mothers with kids in hands, and a small minority of uniforms trying and failing to control their own little knots of entropy.
Foxie made a b-line for second queue. Ty was at his desk. In fact, he was overflowing his desk, in the way that made it seem three sizes too small for him. Black fur stretched over the panther's body in a way that made it look like his muscles had made a bid for freedom, and only the taut hide had been able to contain them. To call him muscled would be an insult. No, he was an athlete, a body-builder, toned and fit and ready for action. Unfortunately, action had found him first. He'd been shot in the leg while on duty, and while his bones mended and flesh healed, he was stuck behind his undersized desk.
"Ty, I need to call in a favor." Foxie pushed through the chaos and tried to whisper. The whisper went unheard, so next he tried shouting.
"Excuse me! I was next in line here!" An elderly marten poked Foxie in the ribs. On the end of her opposite arm, a child no older than five stood close, oogling around the station with an air of abject fascination.
"Gramma, issat a dragon?"
Foxie ignored them and made another attempt to grab Ty's attention. "Ty!"
"What? Foxie, this is a bad time!" The seated cop could only spare a few seconds of attention before a scuffle in front of his desk caught his attention. "Ma'am! MA'AM! Please wait, we'll see to you soon!"
"But I was next in line here!"
"Gramma? That dragon is blue!" The diminutive child was oogling up at Foxie now.
Foxie closed his eyes and made a quick gesture. "Ty, this is important. A friend of mine just got taken in."
Ty glanced up and sighed. "What is it this time? Public indecency? Parking fines?"
The marten slapped on the desk. "Why do I bother waiting in line when people just skip it anyway?"
"No, it's more purple. It's blurple!" The kid's voice sputtered on.
"Ty, I don't know." Foxie leaned forward as someone bumped into him from behind. "His name's Steve, a mouse down at-"
"That guy?" The panther let out a low whistle. "Shit, even I don't know what he did. Feds asked us to pick him up this morning. They flew in last night chasing someone, and said your Steve was part of-" He broke off as the marten thumped the desk again. "Ma'am, if you don't calm down, I'm going to have to ask the other officers to escort you out. I'll speak with you in just a second, now please just wait!"
"Feds? You mean FBI?" Foxie's blood ran chill.
"Mister, why are you all blue?" A small hand tugged at Foxie's trousers.
"That's them." Ty shook his head. "Sorry, but no can do, Foxie. That one's out of my hands."
"Damn. Thanks Ty." Foxie dodged artfully away from the curious kid and its impatient guardian. He pushed left and right, working his way towards the entrance. He needed to think, and that wouldn't happen here in the station. It was too busy. Outside, it was city life. The sidewalks were rivers of people on their way to somewhere, but there were little nooks and eddies in the flow where a smart someone could pause, out of traffic, and think.
The timing was too perfect. Jeff lands back in Portsmouth just ahead of federal authorities, and Foxie's friend gets hauled off? It could be anyone else the mouse had seen in the last day. Week. Month, even, how could Foxie know? He swore softly. He was connecting dots in his head, and he knew he couldn't see the whole picture. It probably didn't even have anything to do with him. With Jeff, either. It was probably someone completely unrelated, someone the mouse had worked with on the set, or someone he'd met on all the nights that he hadn't been following Foxie around on a leash. But instinct told him that was wrong. It was all connected somehow. He had a hunch, and he trusted his hunches.
Fifteen minutes and fare for the trolley saw him back to Jeff's place. The door was still locked when he arrived.
"Jeff? Jeff, are you home?"
No answer. He glanced into the kitchen and living room, both uninhabited. Upstairs, the bedroom and bathroom were similarly empty, piles of clothes and papers and foreign artifacts untouched since the morning.
So he was alone. No one to watch. Foxie's fingers twitched and bent. Something about the deed ahead of him made his furs crawl with apprehension. It didn't feel right, going through someone else's things, especially someone he claimed to have feelings for. Jeff had always been flighty, always been a loner, that doesn't mean he was a criminal, right? He could trust that this was all just a misunderstanding, and that the police would eventually sort it out.
But Steve's lost face haunted him. He could still see the mouse's diminutive features staring blankly ahead out of the barred window. This wasn't right. Someone had done this to Steve, and Foxie didn't leave his friends behind. He had to know. The answers could be right here, right in front of him, and if he left now, he'd never know.
He started his search in the bedroom. He knocked at the back of the Maori statuettes and pulled at the tape around the old-world globe that sat sullenly in the corner. Maybe Jeff was a drug dealer, maybe hidden in these old things were narcotics. The Feds would definitely show up for that, right? He took lifted all of the paintings from their hooks and slid the press board out of their backs, looking for hidden compartments. Then he searched the bathroom and kitchen, taking the lid off of the toilet and searching under the sink and over the cupboard. Nothing.
Foxie blanked for a moment, then tromped back upstairs. This time, he went through the clothing, clean and dirty. Even though it chilled him to think of it, he searched for bloodstains, or bleached spots that might have been soiled. It was impossible to think of Jeff as a murderer, but didn't the news always say that no one expected it? No one met their neighbor and thought "He's probably a psycho with an axe." One shirt caught Foxie's attention. A black splotch dripped down it's front. He almost dropped it from shaking hands, but he managed to keep a grip. He held it to his nose, then frowned. Then he licked it. Coffee.
Defeated, he slumped back on the bed. It's just nerves, he told himself. Just a bad hunch. He could clean up, set the paintings straight on their hooks and put the statue back under the side-table. Jeff would never know. He felt guilty, dirty like he needed a shower. It wasn't how you treated a lover, but he'd had to know. He needed to know that he could trust Jeff.
He rolled over, and he felt paper crinkle beneath him. He reached down, and his hand encountered one of the passports that littered the side-table. It made him smile ironically. Jeff had been so proud of them he'd shown Foxie a few. They were filled cover-to-cover with stamps from every exotic location, so full of them that Jeff said he needed to get a new one every few years. Foxie smiled and lifted himself to his elbows so he could reach the others that had slid beneath him where he lay.
Then his smile started to fade. The second one he picked up was open to its front page, and Jeff's smiling face stared back at him. But next to the photo in careful block-print, it read "Simon Russel Dawkin." Curiously, Foxie opened the other he'd been holding to the front page. In this one, Jeff was wearing his painfully red cardigan, and was bearing the name "Richard Powell." On a third, he was "Phinnigan Thomas Rustley" and there were crisp Swiss Krona folded into the fourth page. Foxie counted them. There were eighteen passports, bearing a total of fourteen names, only one of which contained "Jeff" anywhere in it.
The house was silent, but Foxie's ears rang as if suffering the after-effects of an explosion. He tried to think of a reason why Jeff would have these; why Jeff's face would be smiling up at him from fourteen different names in passports stuffed with foreign currency. Had he changed his name? No, some of the dates on the stamps overlapped. He'd used some of these recently. Maybe he was a forger. Maybe this was his business. Then the Feds would definitely be looking for him. And somewhere along the way, he'd blundered into Steve, and now the mouse was locked up because of him.
Well, if Jeff was playing games with them all, then Foxie was well equipped to play back. It would take a few favors, but what were favors for if not for using when friends were at stake? Foxie sat with the passports surrounding him in a semi-circle and began to plan.
"Foxie, you here?"
The door closed noisily downstairs. Foxie thumped down the cramped stairwell and smiled at Jeff. "Hey you, I wasn't sure if you'd be back tonight."
"Well, I considered flying out to Paris, but then I remembered who I'd left sprawling in my bed last night. Worth coming home for, I'd say."
Foxie sniffed the air. Jeff was slightly tipsy; the fug of wine stuck to him like a perfume. Foxie kept the smile tilting his lips up and waited for his chance.
"So where'd you head out to, then? Nowhere near as glamorous as Paris, then?"
"Hah! No, not nearly."
"No? Where was it, then?"
Jeff looked at him quizzically. "Down south a ways. Why do you ask?"
"Oh, nothing serious." He lied. "Remember 'Just Steve'? That mouse last night? He was asking about you."
Jeff's pride swelled visibly. "Oh, really? Ahh, well, he did appear to have good taste. The question was, my plaything, did he taste good?" The hare winked broadly.
Foxie played into the bait. "Mmm, worth the night finding out. No, but he was curious. He'd sworn he'd met you before."
"Really?" Jeff paused as he was placing his beanie on a hook by the door. "Well, you know I travel, it's always a possibility."
"True, but he kept calling you 'Richard.'"
"Hmm?" By now, Jeff was starting to pull his waistcoat off. "Richard? No, doesn't ring a bell?"
"He was adamant. Richard Powell, he called you."
Foxie didn't miss the hardening of Jeff's gaze, though the smile remained the same on his face. "Then he must have been mistaking me for someone else."
"It's funny, but that's what Linda said about you, too."
"Err, Linda?" Jeff asked. Foxie now had his full attention, even though the waistcoat was dangling off of one shoulder.
"Yeah, Linda. She drives the tram in this neighborhood. She could swear she met a 'Simon' who looked and sounded just like you. Strange coincidence, huh?"
"Extremely." The hare's smile never faltered. "Imagine me with two copies running around. Oh, what would the world do with three of me?"
"Three?" Foxie smiled sweetly. "How about fourteen."
The smile started to fade from the hare's face. "Fourteen?"
"Well, one for each of you, right? Simon, Jeff, Phinneas, Richard, Stanley, Martin..." The list rambled on. Foxie had memorized each and every one of them.
Jeff was silent for minutes after the list of names finally finished. "Foxie, I-"
"You have one minute to explain to me what game your playing."
"Don't threaten me, Foxie. It's not your style." Jeff finally finished removing his waistcoat. "Do you really want to know? Even if it means things might change?"
"Yes."
"Are you unhappy, then?" Jeff stared at him levelly and slowly approached. "Is what we are not enough? I thought we were both content. I give you excitement and eagerness and the whole world on a platter, and in return, you give me control. Isn't that what you want?"
Those fingers, those damn fingers traced over his snout, and the same familiar burn traced through his veins where they touched. He felt the urge, he always did, to drop to his knees. Then he'd be treated well, a valued toy, a precious plaything. It was what he wanted, yet...
"No. It's what I wanted, but it's not what I want. It was fine until you brought my friends into it, Jeff."
"Your friends? What do they have to do with this?"
"Steve's in jail." Foxie's voice was steady. It shouldn't have been, his heart was fluttering and he couldn't keep his tail from lashing at his ankles, but somewhere in the center of his chaotic lust and arousal, he was calm. "The federal authorities traced you in last night and picked him up."
Jeff swore softly under his breath. All pretenses were gone, and the fingers pulled away. "I need to go."
"Tell me what's going on."
"No. I need to go now. Out of my way, Foxie, I need to pack up."
"You're going to stay right where you are and tell me what's going on."
The hare advanced. "And if I don't?"
Foxie had expected this. He'd dreaded it, but he knew it'd come to this. Someone with the hare's apparent history didn't just fold at the first sign of danger. So when Jeff stepped forward, Foxie stepped forward too.
His hand came up, and even though Jeff immediately noticed his mistake, he was too slow to avoid Foxie's grasp as it picked him up by the neck. "It's a fun game, Jeff, it's all a mockery, a play." Breath escaped from the hare's shocked mouth as he came into contact with the closed door behind him. "I was your plaything because that's what I wanted to be. You seem to have forgotten that under all that theater, I'm still a dragon."
Jeff's mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water. Slowly, Foxie let him slide to the ground. The hare gasped, then slowly began to draw breath into his lungs again. "I'm..." He wheezed in between words. "I'm not... Not going to... Say..." He shook his head. "I'm sorry I pulled you into this."
"But you're not leaving until you tell me."
"As I said, I'm sorry, Foxie." From the crumpled waistcoat that'd dropped to the floor Jeff pulled a small pistol.
In response, Foxie pulled out his own weapon. Fourteen passports, bundled into one compact pack.
"Yes, I'll need those."
"You'll need more than that, Jeff."
The hare paused. "What?"
"Did you think I wouldn't be prepared?"
"What did you do?"
"I had all day to plan, Jeff, you never had a chance."
"WHAT DID YOU DO?" The shout echoed around the crowded house, artifacts of the hare's many adventures watching with eyes made of crystals and plastic and glass and vellum witnessing silently from their hidey-holes beneath the rubble of the hare's profession.
"I called them in, Jeff. They have all the names."
Color drained from the hare's ears. "I trusted you, Foxie."
"I called in all but one."
Silence reigned for another minute. The stand-off continued, pistol in one hand, passports in the other.
"You son of a bitch." Jeff finally broke. If Foxie had to guess, the expression on the hare's face was almost a smile.
"That's the price, Jeff. Tell me what's going on, and give me enough proof to get Steve out, and you get a name."
"You crafty, tricky son of a bitch. Fuck, I thought you'd cut me off completely!"
Foxie almost returned the smile, but didn't. "I still could. I don't know what you did, Jeff, but you broke my trust, and you put my friends in danger."
The hare sobered. "I'm sorry, Foxie. I didn't mean to do that. Well, I did the first, but..."
"The story. Out with it."
Jeff sighed. "I'm a spy. I get paid to go everywhere, take pictures of everything. Not just pictures, but get everything I can. Floor plans, personnel, friends, guard rotas and shifts, news, anything that might help."
"So you're with-"
"Yeah, I'm not on your side." He gave Foxie a lop-sided grin. "Sorry."
"My side?" Foxie threw the bundle of passports at Jeff, who caught them awkwardly. "And what exactly is 'my side', Jeff?"
"Well, America, all the states and-"
"I'm on the side of my friends. All the people around me who love me in every different way they can. That's the side you betrayed. That's the side you committed treasonous acts against when you got Steven sent to jail."
Jeff blanched. "You know I didn't mean to-"
"But you did."
The hare sighed and slowly lifted the passports. "Yes, I did. I'm sorry. I didn't mean any of it to reach you here." He hesitated for a moment, then pulled something from his pocket. "Here. This should be what you need." A thin notepad flew across the intervening feet between them, and Foxie snatched it out of the air handily. Inside, the notes were foreign. It looked like Cyrillic. Russian.
"Are these, um..." Foxie scanned them without comprehension.
"Spy stuff. Yeah." Jeff picked back up his overcoat. Then, with a forlorn look that almost approached surprise, he put the pistol back in his pocket. "You've got two choices, Foxie."
"And those would be?"
"You can tell me the safe name, then tomorrow turn in that notepad. If you play it right, Steve'll be free within hours."
Foxie nodded.
"Or, you can drop that in the post, and come with me." Foxie's eyes scanned the hare's face. Jeff was smiling again. "Think about it. Cairo, Munich, Hong Kong, Toronto, we'll go everywhere together, Foxie. We'll see the world, and the world'll see us, never knowing just who we were. We're beautiful together, Foxie." Jeff stepped forward, and fingers stroked over Foxie's chin in a passionate caress.
The fire burned down into Foxie's veins, filling him with longing. All the places he hadn't seen yet, jumbled up in the pleasure of being there with Jeff. They could visit the Buddhist shrines in China and India, go hunting for old ruins of lost civilizations in Africa, go backpacking across the outback in Australia, as long as Jeff kept writing his notes. As long as the photos kept coming in, and as long as they kept moving, never in one spot long enough to get caught. Never in one place long enough to get to know it. Always friendly, but never friends.
"Jeff, you know what I live for. Where's the community? Where's the camaraderie? Where's the trust and the caring, Jeff?"
The hare let out an exasperated gust. "So you'd rather throw this all away? Everything we've had together? Remember Paris? Remember Madrid? Weren't they worth a little-"
A quick chopping motion of Foxie's hand cut the questions short. He hugged the thin notepad to his chest and turned away, putting one foot on the stairs. "It's Richard Powell."
Jeff stared up at him, a hard look in his eyes.
Foxie couldn't look back and meet his eyes. "Go. You've got until tomorrow before I call that one in too."
He had climbed halfway up the stairs before a hand caught his tail.
"Foxie, I..."
"Don't say it."
"I loved you."
Foxie sat on the landing halfway up the stairs. He stayed there long after the front door closed, holding the spy's notes against his chest.
The tone generator and pitch meter sat sullenly on top of the grand piano. Even using them, he just couldn't manage to get the strings to sing to him, not like they had last time. It was frustrating, tugging the strings up and then pulling them back down, but never hitting that magic sweet-spot where the magic began. It still sounded good, no bad tune could ever make this old Mason and Hamlin grand sound bad, but it didn't sound great. No, it needed the right touch, and Foxie just didn't have it today.
"Stars swinging, and I linger on, dear..." A soft, male soprano sang breezily behind him. Foxie caught the tune, and immediately played along to match the song. It sounded good. Not perfect, but it'd do.
"Hi Steve." There was no question in Foxie's mind who was walking across the stage to meet him.
"Foxie."
Silence hung between them for a few tense moments. "I wasn't sure if you'd call me back."
"The manager insisted. He said the old girl never sang so sweet as when you tuned her."
"Ah." Foxie slowly swiveled around on the piano stool. "So it's just business."
"Business." Steve leveled him with a steely gaze. There were unanswered questions there. "No one's told me anything, Foxie. Did you-"
"It was Jeff." Foxie responded to the question even before it was asked. "No, I don't know all the details, but he was the one that was in trouble. So, when you boil it down, yes. It was because of me."
Steve stood there as he absorbed the admission. The auditorium was silent for them. Just like last time, the rest of the day staff had gone home. No one would be around until the evening entertainment.
"That was the most terrifying day I think I've ever had."
"I'm sorry, Steve. If I could have seen it coming, I would never have-"
"Stop." Steve whispered, but the echoes of the concert hall carried it.
Foxie pulled himself short. It'd been years, decades, since he'd lost a friend, at least like this. Years since he'd made a mistake so drastic that he'd lost their trust, and now there were two in such a short frame of time. It tore at Foxie's heart to see the relationship he'd nurtured drift away.
"I'm lucky they gave me my job back, Foxie. Especially with how those officers had marched in and demanded me, with guns in hand like I was a criminal." The small mouse shivered. Foxie wanted to stand, wanted to grasp and hold him, tell him it was okay, but he didn't. The time for that had long passed.
"Steve, I-"
"You and Jeff almost ruined my life."
Foxie had nothing to say to that.
"So..." Steve stumbled over the next words.
"I think I need to go, Steve. This one's free."
"Foxie, just one second."
"I'm not doing any good, here." Foxie turned away and started to pack his equipment back into the backpack. Before he could pull the tuning hammer from the pin, though, Steve's small hand closed over his shoulder.
"Foxie, think you'd like to get coffee tonight?"
Foxie's shoulders straightened in surprise. Then slowly he slumped. He couldn't play the game, not tonight. Not so soon. "I don't think I'm up for wine by the river this time."
"I know." The hand squeezed his shoulder.
"And I'm out of favors, there won't be chocolates tonight."
"That's okay."
Foxie paused, then slowly, tentatively, placed his large hand over Steve's. "Then, you know, I think I'd like that." And tonight, he wouldn't be late.
*** ---- ***
(Fin! Foxie is copyright his player. All other characters in this story are copyright Kandrel and any other resemblance to other characters is only incedental and unintentional. Reposting is permissable, however, all reposts must be in original form, and must contain the author's name unaltered.)
Send Kandrel mail! fox at foxyonline dot com Comments and suggestions are welcome.