He opened his eyes briefly and rubbed them before closing them quickly again, protecting them from the clear, bright glow of daylight. This wasn't his den; it was too bright. He scanned the walls with one half opened eye. It was too cheery to be his home. He moved his arm a little, feeling the pillow he was lying on. Too soft. He sniffed the air. It smelt too good to be anything he had ever tried to cook. He heard soft piano music coming from somewhere. This was definitely his house. Where was he? He tried to sit up before collapsing again. His back hurt, and so did his head. He moaned a tired, worn, hoarse moan.

"Look who's up." Someone spoke from the other side of the den. The voice sounded far away, but very, very, very loud. Trying again to sit up, he tried to sink his claws into the pillow and pulled up with all his strength. It was no use…

On the other side of the room, Munkustrap put down the book he had been reading and stood up from his little desk chair. He stretched and breathed in the smell of a fresh, warm, spring day. He cracked his knuckles one by one, each of the pops aggravating the drowsy cat on the pillow below him even more.

"Stop, please." The groggy tom pleaded, as he tried again to grip the pillow. Once again, to no avail. He flipped onto his stomach, then, and continued to grumble into the pillow. It was then he discovered why he couldn't grasp anything properly, not even the pillow. Around both wrists was gauze, wrapped tightly, inhibiting any movement whatsoever form either of his front paws. He mumbled something else into the fabric that sounded like a question to his brother, who was now leaning over him impatiently.

"I can't hear you, Tug." Munkustrap rubbed his temples and sighed, nudging his brother gently with his toe.

"I said," Tugger whined, lifting his head. "Why am I here?" With that he flipped on to his back once again, and tried, failing a third time, to sit upright. "And what happened to my arms?" He held out a shaking limb, and Munkustrap took it, helping to prop his brother up against the wall.

"You know, I don't think I've been left in charge to take care of you since we were kittens. You do realize this is the fourth time in your short life you've had two broken limbs at the same time? Jenny swears it's some kind of record." He leaned coolly against the wall of his bedroom and laughed as his brother attempted to stand up. When he heard a pop, and watched as Tugger grabbed his lower back and flopped down again on the pillow in pain, he found it took a lot of work to restrain a laugh.

"I don't need anyone to take care of me." He tried to grab the wall and pull himself up by his claws, but once again, the gauze held not only his wrists immobilized, but his whole body in effect. He sighed, and refused to make eye contact with his brother, still watching from across the room, as he lifted one wrapped arm in the air and muttered, "Please?"

When Munkustrap had gotten his ailing brother to his desk chair, he asked again. "What happened to me Munk? How did I end up like this? Me! The Rum Tum T— Ow!" He had lifted his arms in the air, pulling a muscle the wrong way, sending a shot of pain up his side.

"Oh! You don't remember! Well, won't this be fun?" Munkustrap smiled wryly and went to get another chair, leaving his brother to gnaw on the fraying bandages at the tips of his fingers. When he returned he swat at his brother, and took a seat next to him at the desk. Sitting backwards in the dining chair and laying his head on top of his paws resting on the back, he stared up at his younger, less mature, wild-looking brother. "Alright, do you want the short story, or the truth?"

Annoyed with the question but too curious about the answer—and in too much pain—to leave, he snarled and lowered his head angrily, signifying to his brother that he should go on.

"Okay, long story short: you 'went out' with a couple of thugs last night, far beyond the limits of the junkyard, got caught spraying a pharmacy—and I think you know what I mean—tried to fight off the police dog, got your tail handed to you in a doggy bag, ended up being dragged back to the yard by aforementioned thugs by your ankles and wrists, left in a puddle, probably escaped a kennel by a whisker just because someone who doesn't hate you—and we all know that toms who fit that description are few and far between—was on guard duty, and ended up at Jenny's with those two broken wrists, a concussion—which probably explains why I'm explaining this to you—torn muscles up and down your back, and the fur on the end of your tail completely rubbed off from being dragged across the pavement." He took in a large breath. "Are there any questions?"

Tugger stared at him, stunned. "M…m-m-my…my…my tail!" He shrieked, reaching behind him and trying grabbing his tail. Without the use of his fingers, though, it was nearly impossible, so he just stared down sadly at the bandaged appendage, flicking at the air. He began to whimper.

Munkustrap yanked on his ear. "Would you pull it together, man!" He was yelling, and it made Tugger's head throb. "This is the third time in two months that I or another Jellicle with no relation to you whatsoever has had to save your fur, this is the second time you've been nearly arrested, the fourth time since Christmas you've been caught spraying something, and dang-nabbit it's the last!" He slammed his fist down on the table. "You're only a year younger than me, Tug, but you still act like a teenager! When I take over for Father, I can't come waltzing down to the sidewalk every weekend to haul your unconscious tail back to Jenny's!" He sighed and put his head in his hands. "I can't keep saving you, Tug. As much as you don't think you need it, it's what I do every time I get a message from a guard. You need to grow up. Pick one of your adoring 'fans,' as you call them, and settle down. Don't you want all this?" He motioned to the bright den, with pictures of his family and poems Demeter had written for them hung on the walls. He pointed to the floor-to-ceiling window that let in enough light to read by, and finally, he motioned to his desk, cluttered with work and books, including a copy of Tale of Two Cities opened upside down right in the middle. "Isn't this what everyone wants?"

Tugger thought about his own den: dark, crowded, dirty…but comfortable. "Actually," He began, picking up the book and flipping it open to a random page, then flipping it on to the pillow, making Munkustrap flinch as it hit the floor with a thud. "Not everyone wants, or needs this stuff, Munk. Some of us like to live on the edge, day by day, in solitary." He went to put his foot up on the desk and lean back in his chair, but his side pained him again, and he fell flat on his back, the chair upside down beside him. Munkustrap stifled a laugh and helped his brother up.

"So, you could stay here while you get better," he offered as they walked towards the door, Tugger with one arm around Munkustrap's shoulder, and the other clutching his side. "Or you could go back to Jenny's—mind you her den doesn't have a lock and you're officially helpless against your 'fan club'—" Tugger gulped, and a look of worry spread across his face. "Or you could go back to your den and sit in the dark for six weeks while those breaks heal." Tugger didn't look any better with the final option. "It's really your choice." Tugger barely moved. "Ok, let's narrow this down: Demeter, or screaming fan girls?" Munkustrap asked.

"Demeter!" Tugger jumped at the first option.

"Ok, Demeter or your own dark filth?"

"Uh…" Tugger thought hard. Munkustrap cut off his train of thought before it went anywhere else.

"You're staying here." With that, Munkustrap released his brother's arm and let him fall back onto the pillow where he promptly fell asleep.