FSE

Furry search engine

formerly SoFurry search engine

The mouse's bare foot-paws treaded primly, in that precise, careful way, off the scarred, frosty sidewalk, to the chipped pavement of the main road, which was actually divided into two parallel main roads. A railroad track ran right through the middle, stretching for miles from west to east, cutting the town in half.

A few more steps before he stopped, his tail barely snaking behind him. His blue jeans were frayed at the cuffs, where the hems turned up, and his short-sleeve shirt was half-unbuttoned, showing part of his soft, wheat-furred chest. Showing his trim, rural form. Perhaps in need of a few more pounds. He wore a jacket, as well, navy-blue with some paint stains on it. White paint. It was unzipped, loosely-hanging, working in tandem with his pelt to keep him just warm enough.

His exhales came out as foggy vapor, whiskers all a-twitch, as he took a few more steps, shuffling into the middle of the unused road. There was never any traffic here. Only foot-paw traffic. Only his foot-paws, for the most part. And, despite being cold enough to see his breath, it wasn't cold enough to make him wear shoes. Or ear-mittens or a tail-sock. It was in the mid-thirties.

Perhaps, though, such protective articles of clothing would've be a good idea, anyway, just to err on the side of comfort, for the rims of his big, dishy earlobes were beginning to feel the slightest bit numb. And his nose felt like it was being bitten at. But at least, went his reasoning, it helps me know I'm alive. Such visceral, nipping feelings, ones that promised to linger well into his dreams.

Sometimes, it was hard to tell the difference. Between the dreams and realities of each and every day. Like right now. This moment. This scene. With his blue-grey eyes scanning upward, above the ghostly, rural town. Gaze fixating on what he'd seen from behind windows a mere minute before: a hot air balloon. Multi-colored, bulbous, floating like a white dandelion seed. Lazily lolling through the mid-morning sky, framed by the powder-blue of the heavens and the lemony brightness slanting in from the rising, wintry sun. It looked so deceptively peaceful. Both the sky and the balloon. Even the town.

But, turning his head a bit, just a few inches to the right, Rye squinted at the three-story brick bank. What used to be a bank. A hundred or so years ago, well before he was born. It was empty, now. Had been used, over the subsequent decades, for many things. In recent years, used for nothing and by nobody. Sometimes, Rye ventured in there. On summer nights, when it got really hot, he slept in there, where it was cool and less stuffy. But a few weeks ago, a hot air balloon had drifted over and dropped some charges. Some bombs. Something. Blew a big, gnashing hole in the roof and gashed open the left side of the structure, the left wall, leaving piles of dusty, maroon-broken bricks all over the previously-vacant sidewalks.

The mouse, of course, had been terrified, gripped with anxiety and fear, wondering what was going on. Who was attacking him, and why? Predators, obviously, but what kind? From where? He'd never found out. After dropping the bombs, they'd kept drifting, up, up, and away. And what if this balloon, the one in the sky right now, early on this morning so early in the new year, was the same one as before? What if, this time, it bombed his house? He couldn't take the chance.

He shuffled backwards, thin, silky-pink tail wavering through the chilly air, feeling a bit raw. Until he reached the front door of the Restaurant and Sundries, the old, empty drugstore where he lived. That he'd claimed as his own. In through the door he went, the bell clanging as he did so. Ringing, tingling, stopping. Until he came back out the door, kicking it open with a bare foot-paw. The bell screaming this time as he did so, the mouse moving back into the street, holding a well-made rifle. A rusty weapon, perhaps, but it worked. He'd found it in the back of an old, abandoned pick-up truck out in a cornfield. Along with a box of ammunition. He rarely used it. But he'd fired it enough times to know what he was doing. He always kept it fully loaded, just in case. A finger flipped the safety off. And he closed one eye and lifted the barrel, tracking the progress of the balloon, which was traveling at a lower altitude than before. He could almost make out a winter-dressed figure. Almost. Whoever it was, they looked menacing from this distance.

A hesitation, keeping aim, keeping posture, but not firing. Not yet. The few birds that hadn't left for the winter, perched on useless telephone wires and bare skeleton-trees, watched the mouse with interest, wondering why he was out here. What was he going to do? A redbird, a cardinal perched on top of the Restaurant and Sundries, moving its orange, conical beak this way and that, deciding to sing his song. Rye heard, and without turning around, said in his effeminate, squeaky voice, "You better go away ... you don't wanna see this." But the cardinal didn't move. It sang a few more notes. The mouse, finally turning his head, halfway looked at it, telling it, "You're gonna get scared." And, after he said it, he paused, twitching.

Such words were rich, coming from him. Scared? He was a mouse, of course. And knew more about being scared than maybe even the birds did. Mouses were gentle, shy. Timid. Anxious. As a rule. There weren't any adjectives to describe the type of mouse who would pick up an armed rifle and shoot down a hot air balloon. But, then, mouses had just as strong a survival instinct as every other furry species did. If not a stronger one. That always-mentioned anxiety, the instinct to survive, to scurry, to evade the hunters? It was fierce. And if convinced he was in mortal danger, a mouse would defend himself, no matter how peaceful he was. No matter how religious he was. No matter ...

... how many times he tried to pull the trigger, the hesitation continued. His finger tensing, his paw-pads sweating. His whiskers twitching. Just like the rest of him. All of him. Tail, nose, eyes. Everything twitching in some degree or form, with splashes of live-wire energy. And it was the twitching that shot the rifle. Not conscious movement or planning. An errant twitch that caused his paw to clench, that caused his finger to curl, that caused ...

... BAM!

Tsit! A faint, mosquito-bite of a sound. A bullet zinging through the fabric of the balloon. Through one side and out the other.

BAM!

Another shot. Another hit. This one on purpose, not on knee-jerk reaction. The mouse, with the gun's second recoil, stumbled back, squeaking and falling to his rump with an 'oomph.' Still holding to the weapon, but the bones in his paws vibrating from the force of the departed bullets. The cardinal had quickly flapped away, and all the nuthatches and woodpeckers on the trees hitched up onto hard-to-reach limbs, 'ank-anking' their disapproval. Even the chickadees and juncos seemed to scold the mouse for what he'd done.

"I had no choice," he whispered to himself, voice wavering. Still on his rump, tail like a rope on the asphalt. And, after saying it, his keen, large ears picked up on the descending sound of a hiss. The balloon was losing altitude, the basket beneath it wobbling to and fro, and the air-sac beginning to crumple in spots. Which gave the illusion that the colored segments of fabric were bleeding into one another. Rye watched in hypnotized amazement, if not a bit of shock. It'd worked. He'd done it. He'd shot down the balloon. It sank, sank, and veered toward the ground. Out of view. But not out of his excellent hearing range. His big, slightly-numb ears still swiveling, swiveling, catching the sounds of a crash-landing.

He clambered upright, back to his foot-paws, finally dropping the rifle, which clattered unceremoniously on the pavement. The sound replaced with the sound of his foot-paws padding, slapping the surface as he scurried for the downed balloon. He may have shot it down, sure, but he hadn't meant to hurt anyone! He hadn't meant to kill anyone. He hoped he hadn't. He had to check. He had to make sure.

His heart raced out of control, his throat constricting. Squeaky, chittering pants for breath, his whiskers wildly twitching. The mere thought of having taken another life, even in self-defense. Yes, a mouse would defend himself. Yes, he'd proven that. But, all the same, mouses had no mettle for true violence. It was a predator's job. Not prey's. He hadn't the capacity to handle it. Even the mere thought of it. He could only beg for forgiveness, in quick, flustered prayers, silent, mental prayers. Lord, forgive me, please.

Dear Jesus, make it be okay.

By the time he reached the crash-site, which wasn't all that far away, he was indeed out of breath. Panting squeakily, eyes mousey wide, ears arched. The top of the balloon, now mostly-deflated, had caught in some tree limbs. And had ripped in several places. Causing the basket, when velocity had been stopped, to tip over. And, in the process, to dump its occupant firmly to the ground. A fall of seven or eight feet. Probably a jerky fall, too, with no time to strategically cushion the impact. Creeping forward, pink nose ever-sniffing, whiskers incessantly twitching, Rye poked at the unconscious fur with a paw. Poke. Sniffing, sniffing, poking a bit more, with that mousey innocence. With that wide-eyed sense of wonder. Who was it? More, importantly, what was it?

Eventually, he gently rolled her over. For it was a 'her.' A femme. He'd smelled that fact before he'd visually confirmed it. She was a beaver, which was very obvious to the eyes. A fellow rodent. He knew of beavers, of course, and had seen them in the old, dusty books in the town's library, but had never seen a live one. He could tell by the teeth. He, himself, had buckteeth. Rodents tended to. But hers were even more pronounced than his. And her tail was broad and flat, good for patting things down. A big tail, for sure. Much weightier than his.

Definitely a beaver.

And, though knocked out cold, she was definitely alive. And looked to be relatively uninjured. No blood, no awkwardly-twisted limbs. At first, Rye wasn't sure what to do. What do I do, he prayed? What do I do? He almost panicked. But, after a few seconds of halfway-coherent thought, he began to realize he couldn't just leave her here. Even if, theoretically, she'd come to bomb his home. Or to finish off the bank building. But she couldn't have come to do those things, he began to realize. If there were bombs in the basket, wouldn't they have gone off during the crash? During the jolt? Or wouldn't they have dumped out of the basket with her? And she was prey. Prey didn't try to kill other prey. It went against the laws of nature.

But, then, Rye lived in a world where the laws of nature weren't always followed. Where furs tended to flaunt them, to do as they wished. To indulge any desire they pleased, regardless of whether it was right or wrong, regardless of whether any of it was intended by God. That being the case, there was no safely assuming that this beaver was friendly, was there? Just because she was prey?

His senses all asunder, he found no traces of weaponry. Unless she had a knife under her clothes. That wasn't out of the question, was it? But he was far too modest to check for such a thing. No, he'd just have to carry her back to the restaurant and trust she had no knife. Keep a close guard on her. See where she was from and what she wanted.

Yes. Yes, that's what I'll do, he told himself, rather nervously. Trying to convince himself. His paws shaking as he attempted to pick up the beaver. She was built more solidly than him. Slender enough to be attractive, but not thin. Not as slender as a mouse. She had a softness to her figure, her edges subtly supple and rounded. She wore a coat, a wooly hat. The air must've been even colder up there. She was dressed more warmly than him. His eyes flickered over her body, what she was wearing, and ...

... why, Rye asked, is that a concern? Pay attention. Don't get distracted. You don't know who she is. She could be an enemy. He kept telling himself this as he steadily dragged her back into the little, rural town, across the forgotten main street, divided in the middle by the railroad tracks. And into the Restaurant and Sundries. Where he locked and bolted the door once inside.

" ... what in the ... " A half-sentence, interrupted by a light groan, immediately followed by a lighter breath. Then, finally, a yawn. "What ... "

Rye sat up straight, freezing in place. As much as he could, anyway, for all the twitches he possessed.

The beaver, on a mattress on the floor, beside one of the walls, squinted heavily. It was a little bit dim in here. The light flooding in through the windows wasn't as golden or blue as earlier. Clouds had begun to roll in. Dim, but warm enough, the walls keeping the heat inside. Straining to keep the cold out. "Who are you?" she demanded, of Rye. Her vision still hazy. But she could smell him. There was no mistaking the earthy smell of mouses. They smelled rural, like soil, fields of wheat, things like that. Distinct, little scents. Just like beavers had scents reminiscent of water and wood.

Rye didn't respond. Just stared. Having gotten out of his jacket and such, but still wearing his tattered jeans and button-shirt.

The beaver, blinking a few times, pushed herself up. Propping her upper body to a vertical position, legs still horizontal. Until she fell back down, flat on her back. A huff or two. "I didn't have this ... headache," she managed, weakly, "before." A pause, and a swallow, still staring at the ceiling. "You shot me down," she said. It wasn't a question. And there was no hatred, necessarily, in her tone. She was simply letting him know that she knew.

All the mouse did was nod. A shy, quiet nod, sitting in a wooden chair on the other side of the room. The room was set up as any old restaurant would be: a counter, a display case, and several round tables with chairs around them. His senses, amid the frozen, retro furnishings, fixed upon her. His body ready to scurry should he need to.

"Didn't know mouses believed," she said, regaining her breath, "in violence, mm? Do you shoot down every balloon that comes this way?"

"No," was all he replied, quietly, a bit defensively.

"You thought I was a predator?" She eyed him as she shrugged her coat off. Her wooly hat had already been removed. Probably, she guessed, by the mouse. And this was confirmed when she saw her hat on a tabletop.

"Yes."

"Well, I'm not." As she regained her bearings, she regained her confidence. Her industrious attitude. Beavers had their head on their shoulders. They got things done. They didn't get flustered all that easily.

"I didn't know that," Rye whispered, not making eye contact. Instead, looking at some salt and pepper shakers on the table. Salt and pepper shakers that had no salt and pepper in them. Each table also had some candles on it. They looked homemade, as if Rye, somehow, had made them himself. Which he had. From beeswax. "I didn't know," he repeated, "before ... I had to be sure," he finished, trailing, mumbling squeakily. And then finally looking over to her.

The beaver tried to sit up again. And succeeded this time. Returning his innocent gaze with a more practiced one. A more calculated, less naive look. Telling him, "The predators aren't in this area. I was making sure of that until you ... " She opened and closed one of her paws, checking her fingers. Nothing broken. Everything in place. She needed to file her claws down, though. Prey generally kept their claws blunted. Predators kept them sharp. Hers were getting a little bit sharp. " ... mm." A pause, nodding. "They did some raids along the rivers. We drove them back. I was sent to scout the land, make sure they were really gone." She stole a glance at her bare foot-paws, wriggling her brown-furred toes. No bruises or anything. Everything moved on command.

"When?" was all Rye asked, his voice light and airy. On the effeminate side, which was typical of a male mouse. And which only enhanced his air of vulnerability, as well as the allure of his cuteness.

The beaver didn't respond for a moment, as if playing some kind of silent game with him. Wondering, perhaps, whether or not she could tease him with information. After all, why should she tell him anything? He shot her down.

"When did you drive them back?" was the level repeat. He brought his tail around to his front, holding to it with both paws. Almost submissively.

The beaver sighed through her nose, closing her eyes. Her buckteeth sticking out of her muzzle. "Three weeks ago." She shifted positions, slowly, until her back was against the wall, so she could lean and save her energy.

Rye nodded, letting go of his tail and absently licking his paw pads, then swiping at his whiskers. Grooming, grooming, as if he couldn't sit still. Nodding again. "That's when ... three weeks ago. That's when they bombed me."

"Must've been on their way out of this region. By balloon, it'd only take a few days. Must've decided to vent some aggression before they left," the beaver said. "Can't argue with that. I got an aerial view of this ... " She turned her head this way and that, straining to see out the big windows. " ... town? Place?"

"Kempton."

A slight nod. "Kempton. Well ... there aren't any maps anymore, far as I know. So, I'll have to take your word for it." There was no government, either. The population of furs was sparse, scattered. At least in this part of the world. The predators were nomadic, and went from place to place, hunting. Attacking. And hunting some more. While the prey hid in little pockets here and there. Perhaps there were places on the other side of the earth, far away, thousands of miles away, where things were different. Where society still existed in some form or fashion. Where civilization hadn't destroyed itself. But the beaver had her doubts.

"You don't think I know the name of this place?" he asked, in response. "I don't need a map." His tone held a bit of stubbornness in it. Which was, in itself, a little bit cute.

The beaver tried not to smile. "I'm just saying I've never heard of it, and you're the only one here ... aren't you? I haven't smelled anyone else."

A moment of quiet, before a slight nod. "I'm the only one here," he whispered.

"Why is that?" the beaver demanded, more seriously. "Prey aren't solitary. They're communal. I'd expect a predator to be a loner, but ... a mouse? Why aren't you with other mouses?"

"That's none of your business," Rye responded, with a steely squeak, his long, silky-pink tail snaking behind him again.

"Everything about you and this place became my business," she responded smartly, matching his squeak with a chitter of her own, "when you stranded me here. Now, could you get me some water? Mm?"

The mouse made no motion. Other than, of course, his mousey motions. All his twitches.

"Please?" she added, raising a brow.

Swallowing, Rye moved a bit. Out of his chair. Pausing, watching her. And then going out of the room, into what the beaver assumed was a kitchen. "Tap doesn't work. Never has," he told her. "I carry the water from the creek, back in buckets. I boil anything bad out of it, though, before I use it. Unless it's, uh ... bath-water, I don't boil that. Just the one for drinking and stuff."

"Creek-water?"

"It hasn't killed me," Rye responded, dipping a glass into a bucket of the water. And then coming back into view with it. "You're a beaver. You live by flowing water. Shouldn't kill you, either."

"Beggars," she responded, with a slight glint in her eye, taking the glass from him, "can't be choosers." She began sipping, with both her paws holding to the glass. But quickly gulped the stuff. Soon downing it all. And handing the glass back to him.

He took it, setting it on one of the nearby tables.

"You live in a restaurant? That's what this ... building," she said, looking around again, "is?"

"It's a Restaurant and Sundries," was his evasive response.

"What's a 'Sundries'?" She tilted her brown-furred head.

"It's, uh ... it's 'various small things'," he recited, from memory, "'too minute or numerous to be individually specified'." Biting his lip, he nodded, trying to meet her gaze. But his eyes ended up darting. "I, uh, read the dictionary sometimes ... I like to write."

The beaver smiled at this. She didn't know why, but she did. She knew, of course, that a mouse's 'sexual advantage' was his cuteness. And that it was going to subconsciously affect her whether she wanted it to or not. And she didn't know if that was responsible for her smiling at him. But, regardless, she couldn't be mad at a mouse that read the dictionary and lived in a Restaurant and Sundries, even if he'd shot her balloon. "You live in it, though. In here? All the time?" The beaver shifted from her rump to her knees, her back leaving the wall and her broad, flat tail resting there, instead.

The mouse, sinking to his knees on the floor, a few feet away from her, nodded quietly. "Sometimes, I stay in the bank, in the summer. But mostly in here. My family got taken by the predators. A few years ago. So ... " He trailed, eyes a bit blank. " ... so, this was the nearest place. I took refuge here."

"In a ghost town? Alone? Why didn't you try and find other mouses?" she asked again.

"I don't know," was his quiet confession.

"I think you probably do. It probably just hurts too much. You just don't wanna tell me."

"I don't know you." A pause, swallowing, trying not to think about it. "I don't even know your name."

"Amanady," she replied. "Yours?"

A hesitation. "Rye."

A buck-toothed smile. "Suitable name for a mouse."

He didn't return the smile. Only saying, with no expression, "I'm sorry I shot you down. If I hadn't, and you'd been a predator, I'd be dead. That almost happened a few weeks ago. I thought it was the same thing today. I had to do something, you know? Anyway, I ... I shot at the air-sac, not at the basket."

"Most gracious of you," was her slightly-sarcastic response. But, truth be told, she still wasn't all that mad. And she wasn't sure why. A small sigh on her part. "Anyway, no harm done. My headache will go away. And ... " She looked around. " ... you can show me around."

Rye was quiet.

"Mm?" she prodded.

"Don't you wanna leave?" he asked. "Go back to your home?"

"Don't have a family, either."

A moment of quiet on his part, before, "Predators?"

"Disease," was the response. "But don't worry. I wasn't around when it happened. I was scouting in that, uh ... my balloon. They got sick when I was away, and when I came back," she said, voice getting very quiet, "it had advanced beyond the point of being contagious. All I could do was tend to them and watch." She looked to the floor.

Rye felt he should stammer an apology or something, but kept himself from doing so. He didn't want to come off as trite. There was really nothing he could say in response to her story. And, being a stranger, no true comfort he could offer her. Other than, "I'm sure God has their souls. I'm sure they're safe."

Amandy took a breath and held it. And nodded. "Yours, too." An exhale. "I mean ... your family. I'm sure they're in heaven, too."

The mouse's turn to nod. "I know they are," he whispered. He closed his eyes. "I'll see them again."

The beaver scrunched her muzzle, finding the silence a bit awkward. "Well, uh ... so, like I said, I'm in no hurry to get back. They'll wonder where I went, of course, but they won't send anyone after me in winter. And, besides, with no balloon?" She paused, taking a deep breath. "It took me a few days to travel this far by air. Would take me weeks to walk back. A blizzard comes, and I wouldn't make it ... " Her pretty voice held a certain weight to it as she said this. "You're stuck with me."

The mouse met her eyes.

"You gotta keep what you shoot, Rye. No one ever told you that?"

He didn't respond. Just gave her a look, his whiskers twitching.

"I'll have to stay until spring, at the very least. No beavers will come this way," she repeated, trailing. " ... so, you know, do you think you can handle that?"

He said nothing for a moment. Until, "Well, it gets cold down here at night. Downstairs. You can stay upstairs in the attic. It, uh ... the walls have insulation up there. It's smaller, and the body heat stays in. I mean, it still gets cold, but ... "

"Alright," was Amandy's response. "Mind if I, uh ... sleep, though, right now? On this mattress down here?"

"Yeah ... "

" ... yeah, you mind? Or, yeah, you ... "

" ... don't mind. I don't mind. I'm, uh ... gotta go out."

"Why?"

His whiskers twitched. "I just have to check on things. And ... stuff. I'll be back. Don't," he said, "steal things, or break things, or ... gnaw all the legs off my chairs," he told her, "while I'm gone."

"Think that just cause I'm a beaver I wanna gnaw through everything made of wood? Mouses gnaw, don't they?"

"Yeah."

A slight, head-tilting look. "Just checking," she said. "Well, I'll promise not to gnaw the legs off your chairs if you promise not to 'cute' me silly. Mm? Or is that a promise you can't make?" she asked. "You can't exactly turn cuteness off, can you?" And that glint returned to her eye before she shifted positions and turned onto her side, lying down, attempting to get a bit of rest. Already having adjusted to this situation, her paddle-tail resting flatly.

Rye watched her, biting his lip as he did so. He wouldn't have been so calm if he'd been in her position. Shot down, waking up in a strange place with a stranger who may or may not be insane. Becoming stranded with that stranger. He would've panicked. But the fact that she wasn't panicking was having a strange effect on him. He felt somewhat calmer than he should've. He almost felt calm enough to forget that, every time he'd come across strangers in the past, they'd gone out of their way to hurt him. Maybe it was his mousey innocence, but he thought that, perhaps, the beaver wouldn't be like that. And maybe he'd have somebody to talk to.

But, as she'd already fallen asleep, he quietly left the restaurant. No more talking right now. Just endless thoughts and ever-alert senses.

" ... there's alcohol in the pie-case."

Rye looked up. It was several hours later, mid-afternoon, the weather outside having turned fully from bright and chilly to grey and cold, with a blanket of clouds gradually pulling itself over the land, threatening snow and ice. They would surely come later. The wind, to further foreshadow this, was beginning to pick up.

"Bottles of alcohol," Amandy said, nodding, pointing, "behind the glass beneath the counter. Isn't that where pies go?" Her headache had gone away during the course of her nap. And, having quickly accepted that she was stuck here, she was trying to make the best of it. Trying to get familiar with her surroundings, with this restaurant. With Rye. "Or, I guess, where pies would go were this a working Sundries ... it must've been nice," she observed, sniffing the air, "back in the day. Quaint. Cozy ... "

The mouse just nodded and, after a few seconds, resumed his scribbling, writing with flowing cursive on paper he'd taken from the post office. They had lots of paper there. And envelopes and ink and pens. He took them as he needed them. He wrote so much in his free time. And, aside from gathering food and water and sniffing for predators, he had lots of free time.

"But it just ... well, seems odd that those bottles are in there. They got stuff in 'em?" The beaver licked her buckteeth and smoothed at her whiskers, her black nose giving another sniff or two and her roundish ears perking atop her head. Much smaller ears than Rye's, of course. And her ears being mostly covered in fur, where his were all bare flesh.

"I'm writing," was all the mouse said, somewhat to himself. It came out as a mutter.

Amandy, undeterred, padded back behind the counter, trying to open the sliding glass door that allowed access to the case. "It's locked." She sounded surprised.

"There's water in the kitchen."

"I haven't had alcohol in five years," was her response. With an excited tone. "Hard stuff to find. Unless you make it yourself ... that didn't go so well," she said, "last time I tried it." She made a face, not really wanting to remember the taste. Or the side effects. "Come on, where's the key ... "

Rye, flustered, looked up again, forced to stop writing for the second or third time. He'd lost count. "I'm ... I'm losing my concentration," he stammered, squeakily, taking a few deep breaths before adding, "And I hid the key. That stuff's not to be to touched."

"Why?" the beaver asked, curiously and quietly, squinting, her elbows on the counter-top. She leaned forward, watching him from several feet away. Her tail lightly slapped against the wall. Lightly, lightly. A delicate, patting sound. "There must be twelve bottles in there. You found a case in an abandoned building? Mm?" She waited for an answer, but didn't get one. But she wasn't far off. One of the other buildings on the main street had been a pub. 'Breeze-In Pub.' Long abandoned and shuttered, but with some alcohol still inside. "We can get tipsy. If you're afraid I'm gonna waste it all ... "

"I'm allergic," was all the mouse said, clearing his throat, looking down at his papers once more. Scribble-scribble. Scribble. He took a deep breath, his furry chest rising and falling beneath his button-up t-shirt, with the top few buttons still undone. Just like they'd been this morning.

"What are you writing? Journals?" A pause. "You writing about me?"

A flush, tilting his head. His ears a bit rosy-pink. Mouses, it could certainly be said, wore their emotions on their ears. You knew when they were embarrassed or flustered or aroused. All you had to do was look at the color of their ears. And, if that didn't work, just see how much they were twitching, to see how calm or excited they were. The fact that they were unable to conceal their emotions made them extremely vulnerable. And gave other furs, in many ways, a good deal of power over them. Mouses were easy to manipulate. Easy to hurt.

But when they looked at you with those innocent, wide eyes, radiating that cuteness, you wanted, for some, intangible reason, to protect them. Not hurt them. In theory. Not every fur reacted that way. Predators certainly didn't. But, for Amandy, as she looked at him, smelled him, listened to him, she felt a welling desire to wrap him up and keep him safe. The beaver, after a bit, shook her head, trying to clear it. Come on, girl, you're a rodent, too. Keep your head about you. Cuteness isn't a drug, is it?

"You said you like to write. What do you write about?" was her gentle, probing question. Genuinely curious.

"I, uh ... stories, and, uh, things on my mind."

A head-tilting smile. "Like what?"

A deep breath. Avoiding an answer, getting hotter under her gaze. "I'm not used to ... not used to having," was all he responded, trying not to stammer this time, "company."

"Understandable." She took a deep breath through her nose, licking his lips. And then nodded.

"I'm used to quiet. I'm used to ... "

" ... why's the alcohol locked up?" she asked, trying to stay on the original topic. And shaking off the hazy veil of his cuteness. "You're allergic? You mean you're an alcoholic?"

The mouse bit his lip. Opened his muzzle and then closed it, and then opened it again, letting out a breath. Saying, quietly, "You're a mouse, you're ... you're alone and anxious all the time. When you find something that ... that dulls it all for a while," he said, speaking carefully, "you get a little too enamored with it. You don't wanna stop. There were more bottles than that. But I went through them day after day, and ... it was hurting me, and I stopped. I have faith," he said, swallowing. "God can dull my anxiety and loneliness. I'd rather be addicted to Him than that stuff behind the glass."

"Why didn't you lock it out of sight, or just pour it away?" the beaver asked, after a slight delay. And then answered her own question with a nodding, "You became dependent to where, even if you'd managed to stop drinking ... you needed, in the back of your mind, to know you had some? If you really wanted it?"

The mouse's ears were burning, and his cheeks were hot beneath his wheat-colored fur. "I'm over it," was all he said.

Amandy nodded, squinting at him. Not with suspicion, but with concern. "Alright," she whispered. "Well, I don't need any. I was just, uh ... I'll, uh, have water. In the kitchen?"

The mouse nodded, swallowing, his paw-pads sweating just a bit. "I showed you," he said, "earlier."

"Course," was all she said, and she filtered back into the kitchen.

Rye let out a deep breath, closing his eyes. Sitting there, twitching to himself, saying a silent, little prayer. His muscles beginning to tense.

When Amanady emerged with a glass of water, she padded over to him, right up behind him, and set the glass on the table, right next to his papers. "Drink up," she whispered. "Come on ... " Her paws gently gripped his shoulders, massaging them tenderly.

The mouse weakly grabbed the water glass with both paws, bringing it to his lips. Fingers shaking a bit, the water sloshed.

"It's alright," she breathed, putting her nose in his head-fur, closing her eyes and breathing. "Come on, drink up ... calm down," she said.

He took several sips, which lead to several gulps. He drank almost the glass before putting it down, panting lightly. Calming down, slowly, slowly.

"Feel better?" she asked, leaning back, standing up straight behind him.

The mouse wasn't sure how to respond. Other than to give a barely-made nod. He did feel better. He wasn't entirely sure why. Just the sound of another fur's voice, the warm touch, the presence. Maybe he wasn't used to having company, no, and maybe that was a bit flustering at first. But, at the same time, it was also very welcome.

"You alright?" Amandy asked.

Eyes closed, the mouse could only reply, "I don't know." It came out as a frail whisper.

"All too familiar with that," she said, nodding. And, then, taking a deep breath, she shuffled away, her bare foot-paws swishing against the tiles of the floor. Her paddle-tail dragged, as well. "What've you got to eat? I mean, it's almost suppertime," she said.

"Uh ... " He turned his head, watching her move. "Uh, seeds, nuts, dried fruits and berries. I got wheat, and I made flour ... but, uh, and I can start a fire in the fireplace. If we, uh, need one."

"You got bark?"

"Tree-bark?"

A nod. "Like to suck and chew on."

"Uh, I ... no," he said, a bit apologetically, whiskers twitching. "I got twigs for me to gnaw on, but none of it's for eating or sucking. Just to keep my teeth ground down." A rodent's incisors never stopped growing. If they weren't worn down with regular gnawing, they'd grow so big as to pierce the muzzle. And that was extremely painful. He shuffled his papers, organizing them into a pile. And then pushed them aside. "We, uh, can go out tomorrow," he said, "and gather more stuff. There's a woods nearby. The creek goes through it." A pause. "I think it's gonna start snowing tonight, and ... for, uh, several days by the smell of it, so ... "

" ... well, why not go out now? Today? Before the snow?"

"You, uh, up to that? I mean, your headache ... "

" ... it's gone," the beaver assured. "I can manage. You got ear-mittens and a tail-sock?"

"Yeah."

"Put 'em on," she said, as if taking charge. "We'll go out after we have a little snack. Some nuts and seeds. Should tide us over. Long enough to let us forage in the woods, yeah?"

Rye nodded, a bit taken aback by her dominance. But, being a mouse, being naturally submissive, he didn't really mind following her lead. He didn't think she would hurt him or betray him, would she?

"You coming?"

The mouse blinked, having been lost in thought. Lost, in large part, in worry.

"You walked me round the kitchen and all, but didn't say where the food was. You're gonna have to show me," the beaver said, raising and lowering her broad, flat tail, "so we can have our snack. We wanna hurry. It's gonna get dark in an hour or so."

"Oh, uh ... yeah," the mouse said, leaving his chair, and padding toward her, past her, and into the kitchen.

Amandy, eyes briefly watching his tail before darting back up, followed.

Hours later, well into evening, with more food having been gathered and supper already eaten, the two rodents were up in the attic of the Restaurant and Sundries. The space was lit by two or three candles in sturdy, little holders set in the middle of plates, so as to catch the wax. And, also, if a candle fell over, better it fall onto a plate than the wooden floor. The golden, little flames cast heavy, bold shadows, and made for a very intimate, romantic atmosphere. The wind howling fiercely, now, and the temperature steadily dropping, there was really nothing else to do but get into bed.

Rye awkwardly paused at first, staying close to the stairs, his big, dishy ears touching the ceiling. It was a low ceiling. A roof that wasn't level to the horizon. It slanted slightly, being lower the closer it got to the stairway and higher closer to the front of the building, which faced the street. There were no windows up here.

"You alright?" Amandy asked, getting to her knees. Sighing a little. It'd been a long, interesting day for her. Being in a balloon, being shot down, waking up here, getting to know Rye. And then gathering some necessary food supplies before this blizzard came. Touching the mattress with her paws, testing it out, she realized it wasn't a bed, necessarily, because there was no bed-frame. It was just a mattress on the floor. A pretty worn mattress, too, soft but saggy. But, oh, it would do. Anything would do. She just wanted to lie down. And, noticing the mouse was still quiet and still standing at the top of the stairs, she looked his way, repeating, "Rye? You okay?"

Holding his tail in his paws, the mouse replied, at a whisper, "I, uh ... I always sleep in the fur."

"Don't worry. I sleep naked, too," the beaver replied, giving an expressionless nod.

"But, uh ... what I mean is ... "

" ... oh. Well, yeah, that's, uh ... " Amandy chuckled just a bit, understanding. But, growing more serious, she told him, "Temperature's dropped at least twenty degrees, I bet, since this morning. It's bitter cold. Gonna get colder. And we gotta stay warm. Having our bodies snuggled next to each other will do that. Plain and simple. We need each other's heat. We need each other's fur." There was no electricity, obviously, and no heaters. There was that fireplace downstairs, but the mouse hadn't used it today. He only used it on really cold days, to save on wood. Or to cook. And it wouldn't help their current situation because the heat from the fireplace didn't reach up here. "I don't bite," the beaver added, flashing her big, white buckteeth, her brown eyes glinting with a solid intelligence.

"You don't bite, but you, uh, chew, right?" Rye said, quietly, attempting to lighten himself up. Trying to make a joke. And, letting out a breath, he admitted, "That was pretty cheesy. Mouses can't tell jokes."

She smiled. "Wasn't that bad. And you're right: I chew and gnaw. And you nibble."

"I can gnaw," Rye insisted, eyes going mousey-wide with innocence. Blue-grey, and his pupils dilating a tad.

"Alright, you can gnaw," she relented. "But I don't bite, and I'm pretty sure you don't, either. No matter what else we can do with our teeth." A deep breath, the smile softening, barely there. Trying to reassure him, but not wanting to scare him or come on too strong. "Come on. We'll undress at the same time."

He fiddled with his paws, now, sucking in air. "No, I ... you still don't understand," he whispered, flushing hard, exhaling before taking a few breaths, explaining, "I, uh, normally ... " He trailed.

" ... you're nearing your peak?"

A quiet nod. "I, uh, pawed this morning, before you came, and ... then when you were taking your nap. And, usually, when I get into bed, I ... use a towel, and I, uh, you know. Before I go to sleep."

The beaver's turn to get a bit hot. Her rich-brown fur seemed a darker shade of brown in the candlelight. "Normally how I do it," was all she said. Before admitting, "I smelled it on you, but I didn't wanna say anything." A pause. "You smelled it on me?"

No response, at first. But, eventually, a nod.

"This morning in my balloon ... that was cold, let me tell you." A shiver, shaking her head. "And, uh, when you went upstairs to 'do your thing' when I was napping? I stirred awake, and I did my thing, too ... " She trailed. " ... now, we both gotta do it one more time," she said, nodding, understanding. Being furs, they were both sensual, physical creatures, with very strong breeding drives. For furs, the need to breed was almost animalistic. Which made sense, being that furs weren't that far removed from mere animals. The line was thinner than most like to believe. But the sensuality built like steam and had to be sated. Had to be released. Three times a day (for most rodents, and they were obviously both rodents), the desire reached a 'peak,' a point where it was almost impossible to ignore. And, in fact, trying to ignore it often led to negative side-effects, as well as a breakdown in mental acuity. "You're worried we're not gonna be able to control ourselves?"

The mouse swallowed, sinking to his knees. And sighing as he crawled over to her, kneeling beside her. But not making eye contact, keeping his head slightly turned from her. "I don't know," he whispered, his throat a bit dry. "I told you that I, uh ... I'm not used to company. I've never shared a bed."

She wanted to put a paw on his shoulder, but hesitated. And finally decided to do it. "Rye, I know we just met this morning, but we're in an attic in the middle of nowhere. A blizzard's starting outside." A sigh. "We're obviously gonna be stuck indoors for a few days, and my balloon's beyond repair. The only way I can get back home is to walk, and a week or so of walking in the middle of winter? I can't risk being caught in an ice storm. I wouldn't make it. So, I'm stuck here. So are you. And you've been stuck here a lot longer than me." A swallow. "I mean ... why not do it? We could use a little pleasure."

"I know, but ... "

" ... what?" she whispered. "I'm just saying: we're all we have. You're all I've got, and I'm all you've got. Not to say it's ... not to say," she corrected, not wanting him to misunderstand, "that it would be out of desperation or convenience. But don't you think that fate's thrown us together? Just a little, if not a lot?"

"I'd been thinking," he admitted, slowly, "about the possibility." A swallow, finally looking to her. From mere inches away, his blue-grey eyes meeting her browns. All of her, from eyes to pelt, was brown. Rich browns, woody browns. "I don't believe in divorce."

"Neither do I. But you know as well as I do," she whispered, eyes darting just a tiny bit, "that furry mate-ships happen like our sex drives: fast. We hook up pretty quick, right? My parents knew each other five days before they mated."

"Mine knew each other, uh ... three."

"Well, there you go," she whispered, smiling softly. A pause. "And, uh, we're both rodents. We can reproduce. And that's good, cause ... you know, I'm sure we'd want that. And, like I said, we're not gonna run into any other furs anytime soon ... and we're both lonely. At least I know you are. And I'll admit that I am, too, whether it shows or not." She broke their eye contact, looking to the mattress. "And our families are gone. I mean, what other reasons do I need to give? Why not have each other? I just ... " A sigh. " ... feel like I'm coming off as desperate. Trying to justify the, uh ... the thought, or ... "

" ... you don't have to apologize to me," the mouse responded, sincerely, fiddling with his paws. Taking slow, steady breaths. "I've been thinking the same things. I just, uh ... I'm not very forward. It's hard for me to talk about it." A deep inhale. "I just, uh ... wanna lay down first," was all the mouse said.

"Alright," she whispered, soothingly, lifting her arms. And, in the process, lifting her shirt. Up, up, until it went over her head. She stripped it off and set it aside. A sigh and a shiver. "The cold," she breathed, "is going through my pelt. And I got a good pelt," she assured. Her body was meant for being in the water, her fur providing a good deal of insulation. More than the mouse's fur provided him, certainly. "If I can feel it, I know you must be feeling it even more." She nodded at him. "Your ears are pale."

The mouse, teeth silently chattering, said nothing, eyes drifting over her body. Her upper body covered, now, only by a bra.

Amandy saw this, but didn't dare tease him about it or say anything cheeky. Just asked, delicately, "You gonna join me?"

"Yeah," was all he said, exhaling, nodding, paws fumbling at the buttons on his shirt, undoing them one by one. And, indeed, he was getting extremely cold. His teeth chattering more loudly. "I'm s-sorry," he went, shiver-shaking, shrugging the shirt off, "that we gotta sleep up here. It's ... the wind, and ... downstairs, it's more of a draft, cause the s-space," he chattered, "is bigger. I know it's cold up here, but it's worse down there."

"Yeah," she went, twisting a bit, undoing her bra. And lightly pulling it away from her breasts.

"But, also," he added, his shirt tossed aside, his bare, wheat-furred chest rising and falling, "it's ... in the p-past," he went, shivering, raising up a few inches, on his shins. "In the past, c-coyotes have come into town. N-nomads? And they, uh ... they have good noses. They could smell us downstairs, even if they weren't in the b-building. But they can't smell us up here."

"You feel safer up here," she said, undoing her pants, unzipping them. Her breasts were bigger than a femme mouse's breasts would've been. But, then, as Rye had noticed earlier, the beaver had a more solid build than a mouse. She weighed more than him. By no means overweight. But nicely supple. Her brown-furred breasts, because of it, hung loosely, wobbling a bit as she lifted her hips and slid her pants down. Her nipples were hard. Not from arousal, but from the chill. It was a bit uncomfortable.

The mouse's teeth chattered some more. He tried to make himself stop, but it was involuntary. And his ears were, indeed, pale, a whiter-than-normal color. He hurried up, his jeans sliding down his thighs, and his white, cotton briefs going along with them. It was almost strange. He'd been so worried about the thought of getting naked with her, and now that he was actually doing it, it felt so innocent, so normal. So non-sexual. Teeth chattering yet again, obviously feeling the cold more than her, he wriggled, squirming, getting his pants and briefs down to his ankles before kicking them off. His long, silky-pink tail, stringing out from his rump, felt a bit numb. It wavered stiffly.

Her clothing took a few seconds longer, but she soon got out of it, crawling onto the mattress. On all fours, with her rump and paddle-tail to him. Before she lowered to her belly, rolled to her side, brought her legs up, and kicked at the covers and blankets. In doing so, she ended up facing him, and watched as he crawled onto the mattress, as well. Stealing a peek at the organ dangling between his legs. His furry, tufted sac was drawn tight to his body because of the cold. And his mouse-hood was limp and looking the same color as his ears looked.

"It's, uh ... it doesn't always look that way," was Rye's very sheepish insistence, as he got to his own side, facing her, and tugged and yanked at the covers and blankets. Three different blankets. Covering the bed, covering them. Bringing it up past they're shoulders. A shiver, getting comfortable. "It's ... "

" ... very, very cold. It doesn't like the cold. You don't have to explain," she assured, giving him a gentle smile. "I like it, alright?"

The wheat-furred mouse closed his eyes, giving residual shiver-squeaks. "Y-you're just saying that ... "

Snuggling up to him, her bare belly touching his, her breasts pressing to his chest, she replied, "I'd never lie to a male about something like that. I know it's important to you ... and I'm a rodent, remember? I don't crave a monstrous, barbed, knotted thing. I don't need a huge organ with bells and whistles to give me pleasure. Alright? I'm built to take something like a beaver, squirrel, or mouse. Something comfortable and modest. That's what I want. You just a need a little warming up ... "

A little nod, his whiskers daintily touching hers. Brushing, twitching.

And her paw reached down, wordlessly, fingers wrapping round his mouse-hood. Taking it in her paw. It felt, indeed, chilly to the touch.

Rye, eyes closed, took a slow breath through the nose.

"Gonna put some heat into you ... " Her fingers moved slightly, deftly. "Circumcised," she said, feeling the head. A small smile. "Love that ... mm." That made it, in her mind, nicer for giving muzzle to. And almost all male rodents were circumcised at birth, so she tended to prefer it. It was all she knew. She kept her paw around his member, just holding it, keeping it closed in her grasp. Letting it warm up, tick up slightly with blood. Slightly, slightly. Though she felt his sac was still drawn tightly to his body. "Rye ... "

" ... yeah?" he responded, airily, a paw venturing to her side. Staying there, and then sliding around her back. Arm draping over her side, bellies still touching, and his toes and foot-paws ever-so-daintily bumping against hers. His head was on one of the pillows, but his nose was close to hers. His nose cold, sniffing, twitching. And her nose, black as opposed to his pink, less active. But also a little cold. Both of them breathing softly, snuggling beneath the covers. Their body heat staying beneath the blankets and enveloping them in a rising glow.

The beaver let go of his mouse-hood, moving her paw to his chest, gently trailing her blunt-clawed fingers up the line of symmetry. There was a moment of quiet, the wind continuing to pick up its pace, beginning to wail now and then. Then die down. Then start back up. Gusts making the wooden wallboards to creek.

"Amandy?" he asked, in the glow of the still-burning candles. He made a mental note to remember to blow those out before they fell asleep. It was too risky to keep them burning all night.

Eyes closed, paw on his belly, she finally said, "You're a mouse. You're very religious?"

A little nod.

"Well, I have faith, but ... yours is probably more serious. There are things I don't understand."

" ... like what," was the barely-made breath, feeling her body, her rising, falling sides, her supple rump, her back. His fingers splaying and sliding through soft, warm fur. The heat she was giving off mixing with his own. The wind refusing to leave them alone, smacking, swirling all around out there, with its cold and snow. There were times when the mouse feared the whole place was gonna buckle and collapse.

"Well, with what's happened to you, and to me, and ... we're refugees, aren't we, in an attic on a worn bed with old blankets. Isolation, poverty, loss. Thrown together in the midst of it all. Don't you ever want to ask God 'why?' Why it's been so hard? Why the world has just ... " She looked for the right words. " ... fallen to pieces? Why He doesn't make it easier for us? Why, if we're so faithful, He doesn't pull us out of this?"

The mouse, after a mere moment, replied, in his soft, airy voice, "I never question Him."

The beaver was quiet for a moment, eyes opening. "Never?" she asked, curiously. Her voice hushed, just like his, And her paw slipping down his belly, and then to his hip, round to his rump. And then reversing course. She fingered his belly button for a moment, beneath his fur.

This elicited a little squeak. "Never," he echoed, sucking in air, snuggling closer to her, beginning to really like her scent. His chest pressing more firmly to her breasts. He slowly sighed, letting out the aforementioned breath. Licking his lips, shifting beneath the blankets a bit, his head leaned toward hers. "God can do fireworks. He's worked with them before. And I know He will again. But, the way I see it, that's not His preference."

The beaver's roundish ears were perked, listening. She wished the wind would stop. She didn't have the mouse's anxiety, but the sound it was making was enough to start scaring even her. And she knew it was scaring Rye. He was doing a good job of suppressing it. He must've been so used to fear, to anxiety. It must be second-nature to him. He'd learned how to shove it down. But his whiskers were twitching non-stop, and his paws were trembling against her body. Or maybe they were trembling because he wasn't used to having another body to touch.

Rye swallowed, continuing a bit shyly, "He enjoys subtlety, working in intricate, little ways. He enjoys being in the details, and ... and, you know," he breathed, "it's the same way with our lives. He doesn't shove us. He nudges. He doesn't drag or pull us. He leads us. He works gently. Time is meaningless to Him. It gives Him a patience and perspective that we don't have. And, so, He can see it all. He knows what we need, where we're going, and ... we may want things now, we may want to get to our destinations on our own timetables.

"But if He gave us everything we wanted at the moment we asked for it? If He came down and put on displays every time we demanded proof of Him?" A deep breath. "Would we believe Him even then, or just be stupefied? Just be blinded by grace? And," the mouse said, "it would go against reason, anyway. The idea of God having to perform tricks for his creations, as if He's our servant ... all of it, it'd be akin to Him buying our love with favors. Buying our devotion by answering our prayers how we want them answered. Securing our love by making our lives easy." A whisker-twitching sigh. "I don't need proof. I don't need my life to be perfect for me to love Him, for me to trust Him, for ... I don't need luxuries. I just ... " He trailed, words getting tangled.

Amandy remained quiet, raptly listening. The way he spoke, the quiet, wispy way, and the conviction in his voice. It dulled, somehow, the howling, whipping wind that swirled around the building. It dulled the aching, bone-brittle cold, the fact that it was the dead of winter, where it got dark early and late, where the sun strained to get high into the sky, where food was hard to come by.

" ... but, you know, it's not God's job to pursue us. To prove Himself to us. We're to prove ourselves to Him. More importantly, to pursue Him." A pause. "He wants to be sought after and chased. Any good lover would."

The beaver, after a few seconds, whispered against his cheek, her breath washing over his whiskers, "I never thought of it like that." A snuggle, sniffing the mouse's fur. " ... the idea," she went, stroking Rye's backside, "of God as a lover."

"Well, isn't He? It's ... " A sigh, feeling her touch. He hadn't been touched like that in so, so long. It felt good. It made him ache. He almost wanted to cry. But he kept his composure, saying, "Purified by Christ's blood, it's ... knowing God through Him, brought to God through Him, we've been forgiven. Redeemed. Which means the marriage can go forward. And that's what it is: God knows us more intimately than anyone. He knit us together. He's ... in our heads, our hearts. That kind of spiritual intimacy is, in the end, so fierce. It makes Him more than a mere presence in our lives. It makes Him a lover."

Amandy, taking a breath, gently pecking a kiss on the mouse's neck, said, "That's such a good thought. To think of it like that ... but, if He's our lover, why doesn't He do everything He can to make life perfect for us?"

Rye's head lolled aside. Letting her suck on his neck-fur, wetting it, matting it. And his paws roving down her sides. A paw briefly straying to her groin, and then up her belly, up, up to her breasts, where he fondled one of them. Massaged and rubbed and squeezed. His other paw stroking the textured surface of her paddle-tail, where the tail met her body. "Well, like, you know, it's ... we need life to be hard." A slight squeak. "We need trials. We need to be tested. That's how we grow. A gem only polished through friction. Stuff like that. God's our Maker. And He knows that if He does everything for His children, if He smothers them, spoils them, they'll never find any degree of independence. They'll never mature." Yet another breath, and, "That's the nature of having free will. He knows what's best for us, and He'll lead us, guide us, protect us, and stick by us, but ... He won't keep us from making mistakes or prevent us from doing bad things that hurt others, or prevent the earth from shaking apart at the seams. He'll use those mistakes and disasters to help us learn, to help us become more, but if He stepped in and intervened at every problem or sin, minor or large?"

"Then we'd have no free will," she supplied. "I think I can, uh ... that makes sense. It's a lot to think about." She melted a tiny bit, feeling warmer. The mouse was actually scritch-scratching at the base of her paddle-tail now. With one paw. The other gently tweaking a nipple. It was a nice, nice feeling. "I'm, uh, sorry to bring it up ... "

"Eh, it's okay." A hot, squeaky sigh of his own, as she tugged and stroked his long, silky tail, stimulating the invisible, short hairs along the length. And her exhales barely meeting the flesh of his ears. "Ah ... I, uh, I think a lot. Especially," the mouse breathed, "about such things. Theology. I couldn't live without my faith. It's ... you know, if our lives are defined only by genetics, environment, technology, all of that stuff? Then, whether the parts we play are painful or pleasurable, they don't matter all that much in the end." A breath, and a light, airy squeak. A little wriggle and squirm. "But if we're made of God's breath and dust, all of us with eternal souls, and all with the free will to do good or bad to each other during the course of our mortal lives, and if we have a Father in heaven who made us for a reason and purpose, made us each special? And came and lived as one of us and sacrificed Himself so that we could be redeemed? That we could have heaven? If all of that's the case? Then that means we're all artists, making wonderful stories with our lives, and shaping each other's lives, and living in a world that matters so vibrantly." A shaky, little breath. "I just ... can't understand why anyone would want to believe in nothing, or only believe in what they can see, or ... you know? To have no faith? Would be so limiting to the mind. And offer nothing for the heart." A pause, finishing, "It's the only reason I've survived: is cause I've had faith."

The beaver couldn't respond to that. What could she say? She remained quiet. Feeling truth in his words. And impressed, furthermore, at the mouse's mind. When she'd first laid eyes on him, she'd imagined him to be timid and naïve, not much more. She hadn't imagined he held such deep and layered thoughts in his mind. That his heart was so expansive. There was definitely more to him than met the eye. And, right now, he was opening up to her. Willingly. And she appreciated that more than she could say. She simply whispered something into his ear.

"But I never question God," Rye finished, swallowing, nodding and flushing at her private whisper. "I, uh ... well, I question myself. But I never question Him."

"I, uh ..." The beaver sniffed a bit, ever-snuggling, ever-moving. Neither of them keeping their bodies very still. Both of them moving their paws, tails, arms, everything so, so slightly. Just to keep a friction going, to keep up the heat. To fight off the cold of winter twilight. "I wish my faith were that strong. It's ... I mean, I have it, you know. I have faith. But it's not like that." The beaver arched. "Mm ... "

"It takes time," was all the mouse said. "I, uh ... can help you," he offered, that mousey vulnerability creeping back into his tone. Putting himself out there yet again. His heart and soul. Offering to help her grow in faith. Almost afraid, on some level, that she would laugh and make some silly, little comment. Or maybe not answer at all. Even though she'd been so nice to him, there was always that fear in the back of his mind that it was too good to be true.

But the beaver, lightly brushing her slightly-moist, so-warm lips against his, breathed back, "I'd very much like that ... thank you." A toasty hug, her toes curling from the bite of the air, foot-paws pulling up further under the blankets. It must be single-digits out there, without the wind chill. What a cold, dark night. Such bluster and blow. The building creaked, as if moaning, as if calling desperately for the lazy, still days of summer. How far away were they?

Rye flushed, nuzzling her neck, nosing her shoulder, keeping the covers and blankets above them. Except for a moment. Except for when, naked, furry body wriggling in that mousey way, he propped his chest you and reached an arm for the candle-plate, tugging it forward. And taking a deep breath and blowing the candles out. One flame gone. Two. And then the third and final, leaving them in utter darkness.

Amandy hugged him in the dark, pulling him back down. Gently pulling. Ensuring the covers remained over them before her brown-furred arms and paws went back below, back around the mouse's lower back, his rump, his waist. Pulling so gently.

He went where pulled, not returning to his side. But, rather, his belly.

The naked beaver rolling onto her back, flat on her back, the covers rustling as the equally-bare, blood-warm mouse half-sprawled himself on top of her. Squirming a bit, for a few seconds. To get equally in line with her. Horizontal on top of her, and hips lowering, sliding down, his mouse-hood running through the rich fur on her leg. A squeak from the throat. " ... w-what do I do?" the mouse asked, his voice fragile, so vulnerable. Seeping of emotion. He knew how to have sex, of course. He wasn't that naïve. He knew the mechanics. But there was more to making love than merely sticking it in and pumping. And that's what he meant when he asked her, yet again, "What do I do?"

Lightly panting, her fingers running through his soft back-fur, her legs and thighs hotly spreading, Amandy breathed back, "You've ... n-never done this before?"

A weak shake of the head. "Only with ears," he admitted, his whisper swallowed up by the wind-laced dark.

The beaver pecked at his cheek again. "Ears?" She didn't quite understand.

"Uh, ear-sex. Mouse-ears are, uh ... "

" ... erogenous," she supplied, nodding. She remembered hearing that somewhere. "So, you did that?"

"It was a long time ago. I was, uh ... seventeen." He was twenty-three now. And told her so. "How, uh, old are you?"

" ... twenty-five."

A slight nod, his nose in her neck. Thinking back, for a moment, to when he'd been seventeen. He'd had such a crush on this other mouse. This pretty, sweet mouse. She had the nicest giggle. They'd nibbled and fondled each other's ears in a field one night. He still remembered the scents, the temperature of the air. The sounds. But the relationship hadn't gone further, because the group of mouses he'd been with, the one his family was staying with, was soon driven from the area by predatory threats. He hadn't seen that mouse again.

Amandy continued stroking his back. "It's alright. No reason to be embarrassed." A pause. "It comes easy," she continued, "once you get started." A breath, feeling his own breath on the side of her neck. "I, uh, used to have a mate. A husband. For a few weeks." A pause. "I lost him the same way I lost my family. Same disease, same time. I should've brought him with me." She closed her eyes, feeling a lump in her throat. "There was enough room in my balloon for two. I should've insisted, but ... " She trailed, taking a deep breath. "He wanted to stay behind to finish building our dam." The beaver had to stop. Her breath shaky. Too painful.

"I'm so sorry," he breathed, holding her dearly. Getting closer to her by the second. And not just physically.

A weak nod from her, grateful for his sympathy, as well as his increasing affections.

"I've, uh, never been married," was all the mouse could say. "I, uh, have ... I've had," he corrected, "dreams of it. Fantasies, you know. I knew a mouse once, the one I did ear-stuff with," he said, telling her of the memories he'd just replayed in his head. Telling her the story, and finishing with, "And I didn't see her again." A pause. "And I've never gotten close to anyone, really, because of ... cause of situations, and fear, and you can't trust anyone anymore." His nose sniffed. "And then you fell from the sky and here we are, in my bed. In the middle of a blizzard. There's something so sweetly perfect about this ... even if, uh ... " Another pause. "Well, even if," was his sheepish addendum, "you only fell cause I shot at you."

Amandy smiled, her paws sliding over his bare rump-cheeks. She gave light, kneading squeezes. "Well, I'm sure neither of us woke up planning for all that to happen, but ... it did," she breathed, "and I wanna make the most of it." A sweet, light kiss, grazing his lips before sucking fully. Sweet, simmering tastes, the slight touching of tongues, saliva stringing, exchanging. Him sucking her lips, and her sucking his. Pressing muzzles, so slippery. And a smack-smack sound, her almost-pleading proposal slipped to him just like that: "Mates?"

The mouse, breathing on her cheek, gave a weak but affirming nod. She couldn't see it in the dark, but he could feel it. Their bodies were snugged so closely, he could feel every nod or head-shake she gave. And she could feel his. "I don't have a ring to give you," he said, even as he nodded. Even as his lips brushed hers again. Not kissing this time, but brushing. Just brushing, grazing, so that their whiskers touched so quietly.

"Don't worry about it," she said, smiling, and gently rolling with him. "A ring's a luxury. Love, though, is a necessity ... just give me love, instead," she asked of him. "And as for 'what do I do' ... just keep going. I'll help you along, alright? I'm not embarrassed to give pointers if you need them. Beavers rarely get bashful."

A nod. His trim hips lightly rolled, sliding, mouse-hood moving over her groin, where the fur was thicker and more tufted. Leaving beads of pre on her fur, making the head to tingle with rising sensitivity. His breath increasing, and legs stretching. Positioning himself. Tensing as he did so, as his head came to rest against the lower part of her vulva.

"Relax," she breathed, her broad, flat tail lying flat under her back, pressed between her back and the surface of the mattress. There were no sheets for the bed. Just blankets. "Relax ... it'll feel real good. No reason to scrunch up."

"I'm nervous," he admitted, so quietly. His whiskers twitched against her un-twitching ones.

"Hey," she breathed, her lips on his cheek, her whispers so close to his right ear. "Don't be, okay?"

"I know, but it's ... this is special," he managed, barely audible. "To do something like this. To be ... to go inside you? I'm gonna imprint on your soul," he whispered, in awe, voicing a belief of many Christian furs: that, during sex, you 'imprinted' with your partner, that you brushed souls, and left part of yourself with them, as they left part of themselves with you. An imprint was eternal. Once done, it could never be erased. Which was why prey-furs didn't take sex lightly. Because it was a very spiritual act. "I want you to feel good. I want our first time as mates to be ... to be, uh ... "

"You're worried you're not gonna be able to pleasure me?" she asked, melting a bit at his thoughtfulness, his selflessness. His desire to make her feel good. To make her happy. "Rye ... "

"W-what?" he asked, ears burning hot, gorging with blood, and the head of his mouse-hood still nestled against her silky vulva, his paws hugging round her upper body, her back. Her warm, furry form beneath his, breasts sinking beneath his chest.

" ... don't worry about it." A slight huff. "Just take me."

His breath caught, his heart picking up pace, his hips softly grinding, and his now-erect penis, at a modest five inches, slipping through her petal-lips, into her honey-pot, her treasure, her sweetness, her everything good and feminine. An inch, two, three. An easy, slippery hilt. He was completely in.

Amandy swallowed, taking a breath, clutching the mouse's back. The beaver made a few rodent-sounds, air whistling a bit around her big buckteeth. "How," she asked, muzzle so close to his right ear. His flushing ear. "How does it feel ... "

Every millimeter of flesh on his sensitive length was smothered, surrounded, snugged by wet, raw muscle. "It ... it's h-hot," he whispered weakly. He shivered, but not from the cold. "It feels so hot ..." All his fantasies and daydreams about sex hadn't prepared him for the sheer steamy succulence of this. Her femininity. Not just wet, but slick, slippery, buttery. Not just steamy, but moist, tropical. Oh, wet heat, coating, covering his flesh! "Amandy," he breathed, hazily, trying to deal with the wonderful new sensation.

"I know, Rye," she breathed, heart hammering in her breasts. "I know ... " A heavy sigh. Enjoying it just as much as him. But, because this wasn't her first time, being more restrained about it.

The mouse licked his dry lips and whispered, "How does it feel, uh ... for you ... "

"Full," was her little sigh, with no hesitation. "It feels full ... "

The mouse, whiskers twitching, blinked a bit, eyes half-open in the dark. "J-just full?" he asked, worriedly, as if he'd done something wrong.

"No, Rye, it's ... heh, sweetie," she breathed, smiling happily, hazily, her eyes also half-open. Barely, barely able to see him in front of her. "That's a good thing. It's," she breathed, "a very good thing." Her arms wrapped round his back, and she swallowed, saying, "I don't mean, uh, just 'full' as in 'occupied.' But, like ... you filled the emptiness. The empty ache is gone, and ... a fullness," she said, "is there. It's, uh ... " She felt, at first, rather silly trying to explain this to him, to be honest. But she wanted him to understand how it felt for her. Good sex required good communication, after all. They needed to talk about how it felt in order to make this better. " ... it's like being hungry and getting food. My loins throbbed hungrily, and you're feeding that hunger. Feeding my walls with sweet friction." She didn't like where the 'food' analogy, though, so she switched gears, running with the 'friction' part. Smiling widely as she settled on, "Think of my vagina as the, uh, violin ... your penis is the bow. Each by itself sounds ordinary. Rub them together? And they make beautiful, extraordinary music. That's what it's like ... "

The mouse flushed, ears hot, body atop hers, sinking, snugging, still at a hilt. "I ... I think that's the sweetest thing," he went, in his airy, squeaky voice. "We're making music," he breathed, dreamily. A little squeak, his ears swiveling like sun-hot dishes atop his head. As they swiveled, they grazed her head-fur, making him squirm a little bit more than he already was.

"Mm-hmm," she breathed, huffing a bit. A slight giggle-chitter on her part, as she continued, "But, uh, friction, rub ... rub the bow on the, uh ... Rye ... " She was trying to find a tender, polite way of getting him to move. To get him into motion. And, finally, she just admitted, "I wanna be humped. Rye ... "

" ... I'm ... a-alright," he said, starting, feeling sheepish for a moment as he pulled his penis back. Keeping just the head inside her, and a little bit of the shaft. Just a little. It made a slick, sucking sound as he pulled. A squelching sound between their genitals. It wasn't something he'd thought of, necessarily, when thinking of sex. The squishy sounds of their organs moving together. But it was almost sweet, in a soft, background sort of way, and his ears heard every sound as he plowed back in. Softly, softly in, and pulling back, and plunging in.

Amandy, muzzle lazily remaining open, lips slightly parted, gave eager-beaver nods. "Uh-huh," she breathed, a smile melting onto her muzzle. "Uh ... huh. Mm." Nodding a few more times, head-fur rustling on the pillows. "Yeah ... " She held on tightly, heels on the backs of his legs, her legs wrapped round his. Arms all the way around his back. Hitching to him, body rocking gently back, breasts squishing to his chest. She chittered as his soft, sweat-matting chest-fur rubbed back and forth over her hardened nipples. And panted as his penis drove into her with such want, brushing her walls, stimulating them, making them flutter so lightly. She felt herself pushed forward and down into the mattress each time his body moved into her. And then felt herself rise up an inch or two, the mattress springing back up, each time he pulled back. "Oh ... oh ... " She began to moan, a bit helplessly, as he kept it up, not stopping, not relaxing.

The mouse, shoulders and shoulder-blades now exposed to the cold, bedroom air, the blankets covering the rest of him, humped, humped. Slick, slick, slick went the sound of their genitals as he dipped, dipped in and out of her, squeaky sounds of simmering pleasure spilling from his throat, his tail snaking beneath the sheets and eventually coiling round one of her ankles. Her toes curling as this happened. And, as her toes curled, she instinctively began to clamp down a bit with her buckteeth.

"Mm. Hmm," the mouse breathed, throatily, squeaking so, so lightly, feeling her buckteeth on his neck. They were big teeth, of course, and, oh, they felt good as they chewed and gnawed on his fur, massaging the flesh beneath, gentle love-nibbles, so erotic in their execution and applied pressure. "Hmm ... mm ... " It made his head wanna loll aside. Made his muzzle gape for a second. "H-how ... " A swallow, as he continued to breed her, and as the beaver continued to gnaw on his body with her buckteeth.

" ... beavers," she responded, panting, "created the art of erotic nibbling. Mm." A heady smile, nibble-nipping at his neck, his cheek, and then his shoulder. "It's our sexual advantage. Didn't you ... k-know that?"

He shook his head. He hadn't. But he certainly knew it now. And, for another minute or two, they proceeded in relative, pleasure-hazed silence. Him humping steadily, not too quickly, but fast enough so that she could feel it. And her nibbling on his upper body, wherever her muzzle could tilt to and reach at. Their bodies tangled in sweet, furry union.

Eventually, though, her nibbling trailed off, her jaw getting a bit tired. And her body in need of a little bit more than the mouse was giving. "C-clitoris. Rye ... " It was a half-coherent plea, her breaths washing heavily onto his neck-fur. "I n-need it ... "

The mouse, dizzy, slowed down a bit to ask, "W-what ... "

" ... your hips." Amandy swallowed, throat dry. A huff-puff. "Angle your humps so that, when you go in ... your hips grind to mine." A swallow. "You're, uh ... you're going in, but you're not grinding. If you grind with me, it stretches and massages the fur and skin on my groin, and ... and rubs the top of my vulva. Stimulates my clit. I need it ... "

Rye gave several tender, eager nods. "O-okay. I'm sorry," he panted.

"No reason to be," Amandy responded, smiling casually, catching her breath for just a moment. "You can't help it."

"W-what do you mean?" he asked, bashfully.

"Well, my vagina makes you feel good. My clitoris ... doesn't. W-which one are you gonna give more attention to?"

Rye hesitated.

"Mm?"

"Your, uh, vagina," he admitted, feeling a little bit silly. He hadn't meant to get so fixated on his own pleasure that he'd not been attuned to hers.

She grinned. "Mm-hmm. Don't worry about it, okay? Feels good for me, too, but ... you can't forget my little nub. I've, uh ... " A little sigh. " ... I've never had an orgasm without it being stimulated. But y-you can work both at the same time. You just gotta be, uh, conscious of it. Rye ... "

" ... yeah?"

"I do wanna orgasm, alright?" She said it in a slightly teasing tone.

"I, uh ... I planned on trying to give you one," he said sincerely, seriously, in such a sweet, innocent way.

Amandy melted, giving a gleeful giggle-chitter. "The cuteness! Oh, wow ... mm, Rye. Keep going. Hump, but grind."

"I ... I want you to gnaw on me more."

She nodded in response, her head-fur meshing with his.

The naked, sweat-matted mouse built his rhythm back up, up, dipping in and out of her femininity, which was even slicker and hotter than before. It was rippling steadily around him, as if preparing to convulse, his hips grinding, gyrating, his penis sinking into her natural sheath, body pressing, her clitoris grazed, the flesh around it tugged, and his tufted groin-fur rubbing over it as he sank in, grinding, grinding, staying there. Staying in, staying close, hips bucking at hers.

"Hnn, nuh ... nuhh ... " A few, light beaver-bellows from her, grinding back at him, in such pleasure, gnawing on his neck, his shoulder, even his chin. Gnawing, nipping sweetly, licking his fur, as well, with such, such ...

... such feeling. Such fierce, tangible feeling as her body let loose. Her vagina, after a few sharp ripples, sent into spasms. Fluttering tremors, milking his penis, dribbling little squirts of femme-juice, soaking his sac-fur and wetting the mattress. Her cervix dipping down, desperate for seed.

And his body desperately giving it, with a twitch, twitch. Penis jerking in readiness. Until the twitches became electrical spurts, spurts. Spurt. Steamy-white mouse semen pelting, splashing her womb by the spoonful. Each ejaculation making him squeak, making him writhe, making him moan. He was in incoherent, wriggling bliss, tail uncurling from her ankle and ears throbbing, pulsing with blood-burning, sensitive heat.

The beaver, paddle-tail tingling between her body and the mattress, gurgled, eyes glazed over, so hot and lazy beneath the mouse, her extremities tingling and her genitals and breasts tingling. A residual tremor or to, her belly rising and falling heatedly, her fur matted with sweat, meshing with the mouse's sweaty fur. "Oh, gosh ... oh, yeah." A deep, muggy breath. And, smiling giddily, she asked, teasingly, "You ... you still there? Rye?"

A weak, wordless nod, unable to move. Floored from the orgasm, for one. And, two, his penis, after ejaculation, became extra-sensitive to touch. He'd tried to pull out, but the sensitivity almost hurt. Which encouraged him to just stay where he was. To regain his breath. Which, by biological plan or not, kept his seed pooled inside her tunnel, letting more of it reach her womb. But she wasn't in heat. She wasn't going to get pregnant tonight.

"You know," the beaver breathed, staring through the dark, caressing the mouse's back. "You know, I almost forgot all my problems. I almost forgot about the cold, too. I ... I lost myself," she breathed, "in that. In what we just did." A deep breath. "Thank you," she whispered, "so much ... "

To which the mouse only responded, dreamy and emotional, "I love you ... " A swallow, hoping she'd return the words. Desperate for her to do so. And, after all, they'd just mated, hadn't they? That's what they'd just consummated. They were now, by furry definition, married. If she didn't return the words, he would be beyond devastated. "I love you," he whispered again, holding his breath.

" ... I love you, too. It's alright." A smile, caressing him some more, and giving a deep, soft sigh.

The mouse relaxed, relieved. In more ways than one.

"Mm," she went, making a beaver-sound. "When the spring comes, even when I'm able to leave, and even if they come looking for me?" she said. "I don't need to go. I mean, cause you'd have to come with me, and ... "

" ... well," the mouse replied, thinking it over for a second. "I don't mind."

"You wanna be the only mouse living in a village of beavers? And that's even assuming the village is still there," she admitted, not backing away from the bleak possibility. "If the river floods from lots of snow, or the predators come ... you know, we may walk all that way to find it just as abandoned as this town here. And then we'll be in a different kind of trouble. Whatever we decide to do, whether we stay or leave, it's gonna be a risk." A soft breath. "The world we live in isn't safe. It's governed by anarchy. Right now, we're heady and drunk on love and anything seems possible, but ... the danger's still there."

"I don't care," he insisted. "I have faith. And, now, I have love, too," he whispered. "I waited so long to find someone. I'm not gonna let you slip away."

A big, comfortable hug. "I won't," she replied, smiling some more. She couldn't help it. "I'm just saying I'd feel safer if we lived with a group of other prey. Safety in numbers. But, uh, we don't need to go back to my village, necessarily. Maybe we can find a closer one. Or just stay here, after all. But, uh ... we got lots of time to come up with a plan," she admitted, her mind swimming with the possibilities. And the benefits and threats involved in each. "We can't go anywhere 'til spring. That's another three months."

"Mm, yeah," was the eventual squeak-moan, which was also a sound of agreement, as he finally pulled his mouse-hood out of her. It flopped aside, growing limp, leaving excess semen to trickle out of her, sticking to her groin-fur, her thighs. And he rolled off her body, to the side. "If we follow the train tracks, or follow the creek ... I think both of them lead to other towns. But a lot of them are like this one. Only some of them have furs there."

"Let's leave it for another time," she repeated. "I really shouldn't have brought it up right now. Not when we're still in afterglow," she said, of the hazy, cloudy state furs got in after sex. "I just ... have a reason," she whispered, "for wanting a future, now. Before, I wanted to be alive, of course, but I didn't feel a need to plan that far ahead. It wasn't that important. But, now, it suddenly feels that way. I feel I've got something to plan for ... you know? Is that silly, or too soon to be saying?"

The mouse shook his head, breathing deeply of her scent. "I like how you smell," was all he could say, with a sigh.

Amandy had to giggle-chitter. "Mm. So," she breathed, hardly able to stand it, "cute ... mm." She hugged him, snuggling sensuously, warmly. Paying no heed to the cold or the wind. No heed at all.

Face-to-face, side-by-side in bed, fur matted with sweat, both of them soaked in the scent and glow of sex, both of them wonderfully weary. And, in such a state, the realities of the world slowly filtered back. The biting, gashing cold that was creaking the house, wailing as it whipped by. The snow that was surely whirling around with it. The meager food reserves they had. All of it.

But with faith and love, couldn't it all be staved off? Couldn't it all be endured? Before, things had felt so serious, so full of weight. And, now, right now, as they drifted off to sleep in the dark of the attic, there was a certain lightness to things. They'd made love only once. But they already felt different. And perhaps survival, from this point forward, wouldn't be such a stark and desperate thing as it had previously seemed.