AUPRIL DAY 10 - MOON [ft. SWAPFELL!PAPYRUS]
You awaken with a full-body jolt and a sharp inhale, your sleep-addled brain releasing adrenaline like it doesn’t know the difference between your laundry alarm and a nuclear siren. The panic drains as quickly as it floods you under the heavy, warm absorption of the comforter pulled up to your chin and the lanky arm draped over your waist. It leaves your eyelids drooping and a hot coal of irritation lodged in your chest.
You groan and fold your pillow over your head. “Turn it off…”
A raspy voice creaks behind your head, nuzzling into the back of your skull. “ya sure, darlin’?”
You grumble an affirmation, then a half-conscious protest when Mutt releases you to turn over and take your phone off the charger.
And put your body through that stress again? Pass. “Off.”
The angelic choir of silence follows Mutt’s throaty chuckle, and you’re sent back to the blessed haven of lazing on a Saturday afternoon as he scoops you back up, a hand pressing on your sternum as he draws you back into a spoon. His ribs press comfortably to your back, and his knees slot snugly under yours. He fits against you like he was meant to be there, bless his beanpole build.
Mutt settles his head back against yours, his teeth grazing the shell of your ear. “i give it three minutes.”
“Three?” you echo with a weary scoff. “Have a little faith. Five.”
Mutt doesn’t even have a chance to tease you for your generosity before the four-foot-two rooster that lives in the room adjacent crows your name like distals on a chalkboard.
“COME GET YOUR LAUNDRY BEFORE I THROW IT IN THE GARBAGE!”
If only this alarm also had a snooze.
You whine in disappointment, already mourning the loss of your warm bed and warmer bedmate as you begin to lift yourself upright. But the arm cradled around you tightens, holding you down.
“i got it, darlin’.” Mutt nudges his nasal bone against the back of your neck in a kiss.
He pushes up to his hands and knees and tucks a pillow against your back as a sorry replacement before stumbling out of bed and out the bedroom door. When he clicks the door shut, you’re gifted a brief silence that you use to listen to the undoubtedly colorful conversation about to take place between him and his brother.
You can’t hear Mutt, but you can hear Black as though he’s in the room with you.
“IS THAT YOUR NAME? DID I CALL FOR YOU?! NO!”
“THEN GO GET THEM! THEIR LAUNDRY IS STILL IN THE WASHER!”
“YES, YOU KNOW, I KNOW YOU KNOW! THEN YOU ALSO KNOW THAT I NEED THEM TO COME SWITCH IT OVER, SO I CAN START MY LAUNDRY!”
And another. Another few, even. A disproportionate amount of beats. Mutt isn’t exactly the most conversational person in the world, so you know something is off when enough time passes for him to scruff out his one-word responses three times over.
Then, something new. A series of disbelieving squawks, starting and stopping in a mishmash of unintelligible syllables.
Then stomping. Stomping that’s ascending the stairs, getting closer to the room. You brace yourself, and you still startle when the door flies open.
“YOU!” Black’s accusatory shriek is a javelin launched right at your head. “WHAT DID YOU DO TO MY BROTHER?!”
Groggily, you lift your head, squinting your eyes at the rattled skeleton in the doorway. “Dude, what?”
“DO NOT DUDE ME, YOU DID OR– OR SAID SOMETHING TO HIM!”
“What are you talking about?”
“HE’S– HE’S–” Black jabs his hands in the general direction of the laundry machines, then wildy waves them around in a flurry of gestures that makes his arms blur in the motion.
He suddenly freezes, pulling his arms close to his chest like he’s caught a chill. When he finds his voice, it quakes with fear. “He’s… He’s Doing A Chore.”
The way he says it, you’d think Mutt was downstairs plotting a political assassination, not switching your laundry from the washer to the dryer.
“Uh, yeah?” you ask flatly.
“MUTT DOESN’T DO CHORES!”
Ah, you were just missing the sensation of flinching out of your skin.
“I dunno what to tell you, man.”
Black stomps his foot in an awkward half-step out of the room like he’s trying to figure out what to do with himself. If Mutt’s doing chores, it might as well be the end of the world. He pivots back to you, seething venom through his teeth.
“I’VE GOT MY EYES ON YOU, HUMAN.”
Black turns and clomps down the stairs, muttering to himself about how his brother has never even done a load of laundry in his life, and now suddenly he’s volunteering for it.
His bewilderment will be a very fun button to press, you figure.
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