"'To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven. A time to be born, and a time to die…'"
They were words I had heard before and had never regarded with more than a passing interest. I imagine the words were a great comfort to some among the gathered mourners. Perhaps they even found them beautiful. Lazily, my tail cut an arc through the crisp autumn air. Even now I couldn't force more than a vague notice of the oft-recited passage as father's voice droned on to join the constant stream of background noise.
My mother is dead. Unconsciously, I tightened my grip on the bit of chain-link beneath my fingers, scattering the flakes of rust marring the metal barricade. My mother is dead. Dead. My mother… I repeated the words like a mantra, until they, too, disappeared beneath the rushing of the blood in my ears.
"My mother is dead," I murmured quietly, glancing skyward to see the last expanse of cool, November sky covered by storm clouds. The words left my lips in a clumsy clash of vowels and consonants that had ceased to hold meaning. I waited for a moment, listening to the distant rumbling overhead. I can't say what I was expecting to happen. Rain, more than likely.
Father's voice broke through the catnip-hazy drift of my thoughts once more: "'A time to lose, a time to keep, and a time to cast away…'"
I watched the animated motions of my father speaking, hearing without listening to what was being said. My breath misted out before me, forming small white clouds in the cold. Crossing my arms over my chest at a sudden shock of frigid wind, I leaned back against the fencing. My eyes passed over the many assembled, what seemed to be the entirety of the Jellicle tribe. A scattered few were crying openly. More looked to be steeling themselves for a future that I had lost the mental dexterity to wrap my mind around.
"'A time to love…'"
There was a tonal change as the passage from Ecclesiastes drew to its rather anticlimactic conclusion. Father cleared his throat, sparing little time before leaping into another passage. It struck me then as unfeeling, impersonal that this service differed in no way from any other that I had attended. As if mother had been nothing to him. Nothing to remark upon, at least.
Mother would have hated the generic tradition of the affair, the pomp and circumstance, I decided. She had always been too free a spirit. Idly, I brushed a few wet strands of red from my face. I couldn't focus, but then, nothing appeared to be worth focusing on. A light drizzle had begun to fall, and I shivered where I stood. A time for everything, Father, I silently deadpanned. You of all cats should know that this is no time for a funeral service.
A flash of silver glinted in my peripheral vision, and I refocused my attention, blinking back the errant raindrops that had dripped from my mane. Munkustrap. From my vantage point, I couldn't catch even a glimpse of his face. His back was turned to me, but the arch in his spine, coupled with the restless flicking of his ears and long tail --- apparent even from several yards away --- clearly indicated distress.
The echo of rain on metal was increasing in volume. Father's voice was nearly drowned out by the crackle of thunder and the percussive beats of the rain. I noted Tugger had wrapped an arm around Munkustrap, pulling him into an awkward half-embrace. He seemed to be saying something to our younger brother, who was shaking his head repeatedly. My fingers had begun to stiffen slightly in the cold, and I rubbed my paws together, attempting to create some friction. Munkustrap was shaking.
"'O death, where is thy sting? O grave, where is thy victory?'"
It happened very quickly --- Munkustrap shoved Tugger away from him and darted off through the crowd, leaving the latter looking positively astounded. Were it any other day, I might have laughed. Munkustrap caught my eye before running past me. I have never been one to pity, but my heart ached in sympathy to see his eyes bright with such pain. For a brief moment, father's voice wavered. But still he pressed on, undeterred.
No degree of respect for the dead could have kept me there.
"Hey, Kitten."
A black mottled, silver ear swiveled in my direction. Munkustrap glanced at me over his shoulder, gaze lingering for the span of time it took to identify me --- not that anyone else still called him 'Kitten.' He mumbled something, but the clarity of his words was lost to the sounds of the storm. It had begun to rain in earnest, freezing droplets that made me want to hiss upon contact. With the catnip still winding in its lackadaisical way through my system, I lost interest in this as surely as the cold was causing me to lose feeling.
A weak sob snapped me to attention.
Munkustrap was huddled there on the tire, knees tucked to his chest, curled in on himself in the cold and wet. He sniffled, rocking slightly as if he found the repetitive motion soothing. A clash of thunder, followed in quick succession by a white streak of lightening, sounded. Tightening his arms about his knees, Munkustrap let out a wretched mewl. My heart went out to him; ached and burned for him. His slight frame was racking with the force of his sobs. He looked to literally be trying to hold himself together, as if the aching of his heart were causing him to fall apart all around it.
I took the place next to him on the tire, placing a paw on the small of his back. Silent but for his crying, he twisted around and buried his face in my chest, awkwardly clutching fistfuls of my mane as he clung to me. Instinctively, I curled my arms around him. Somewhere in that confused span of seconds, he had situated himself in my lap. Beneath the musty smell of damp leaves that hung in the air, I could make out the familiar scent of my brother. Cradling him to my chest, I rested my cheek atop his head. It was a smell that had forever reminded me of catnip.
We held each other while the storm raged on. A few minutes, maybe a little more. The hot splash of his tears against my chest was scarcely noticeable in lieu of the rain. Perhaps I was imagining it altogether. My heart was beating in bizarre accompaniment to the weather, in a meter the elements had not bothered to master. I listened carefully for Munkustrap's, gently describing circles on his trembling back. Our hearts beat out of sync.
Quietly, I spoke. "Let me take you inside where it's warm."
Somewhat unwillingly, Munkustrap climbed out of my lap, only to sit mutely when I stood. I waited while he ineffectually wrung the rainwater from his tail, pursing his lips in distaste. He fiddled with the black tip, made scraggly by the rain.
"Come on, Munkustrap…" I did my best to keep the impatience out of my voice, but he was shivering too violently for me to retain a perfect calm. Everything was already too chaotic without adding hypothermia to the list. "I'll carry you, okay?"
"'Kay," he whispered, rubbing at his reddened eyes with a shaky paw. I knelt, up to my calves in icy, muddy water. With a yawn, Munkustrap curled his arms around my neck. His knees dug into my sides a little.
"Try to stay awake for me, Kitten. Just a little while longer, and then I promise you can sleep as much as you want. Not now, but soon," I said, teeth on the verge of chattering. The full effect of the cold was seeping into my bones as my high rapidly faded.
He yawned again, snuggling into my shoulder. "You w-worry too much."
"Someone has to worry about you. I'm as good as anyone."
Catnip always left me with an intense headache, and this time the effect was only worsened by the stinging, pins and needles sensation in my limbs as feeling returned. My vision was blurring badly, and I shut my eyes. Everything seemed to echo for the longest moment, reverberating from every solid surface, pounding a brutal rhythm inside my skull. Too loud, too… It stopped as quickly as it had begun.
Cautiously, I reopened my eyes, casting a glance over my shoulder after I gained some semblance of focus. Munkustrap sat perched on my bed, dangling his legs over the side. His feet didn't quite touch the floor, I noted, but he contented himself with drumming his heels against the box spring. Only a few minutes ago those big, blue eyes had been heavy-lidded with exhaustion. Now they were brimming with curiosity as they took in his surroundings—not that I had anything worth looking at, in truth, but he was only eight.
I suspected that childlike curiosity was something he would never grow out of.
Satisfied to see that Munkustrap's shivering had quieted down considerably, I turned back to the small fireplace. I fumbled with another match, having broken several in my attempt to light a fire, fingers still clumsy and thick with cold.
"Finally," I muttered, seeing the head of the match flare red at last.
A thin stream of smoke was beginning to rise from the pile of crumpled newspaper and scraps of wood. The kindling ignited nicely as I blew on the embers, coaxing the flames to spread. There was no time before this that I could remember having been more thankful to see that bright, orange glow.
Only half of my attention was directed toward Munkustrap while I proceeded to search for an extra blanket, a towel. Several seconds later, a few ragged scraps of white cotton caught my eye. They were dry, and clean enough. I grabbed two, keeping one to quickly soak up what rainwater I could, and wipe off my muddied calves. The fire would take care of the lingering damp. It would only be a matter of a few minutes for the warmth of the fire to circulate. My den was hardly what anyone would call spacious.
Munkustrap coughed, somewhat wetly. "Macavity?"
More often than not, he referred to me simply as 'Mac.' The name had proven virtually unpronounceable when he was younger. He took the liberty of shortening it. It stuck. The appearance of my full name was rather suspicious, coming from him.
"Yeah?" I turned toward him, the other towel slung over my arm, wringing some of the remaining water out of my mane. It dripped unceremoniously onto a carpeted portion of the floor.
He cocked his head to the side, frowning cutely. "You're sort of a slob."
"And you're dripping water all over my nice, dry sheets," I countered, laughing at the impish look of glee that replaced his scowl. The noise was startling, the way it seemed to fill the empty spaces, every crack and crevice. It occurred to me that days, weeks even, had gone by in which I had not so much as cracked a smile. There had been little to smile about, things being what they were.
It was soothing to just laugh with him, to know that life at least stood a chance of being normal again.
If Munkustrap noticed my pause, he didn't remark on it. "So, do youenjoy being a feline mop?"
"Maybe…" Munkustrap smiled, swinging his legs against the bed. He bit his lip, as if trying not to laugh. "You're weird, Mac."
"So they tell me, Kitten. Here," I said, crouching down to his level, towel in hand. "Let's get you dried off. And cleaned up," I added, noticing the streaks of mud on his legs.
He purred quietly while I towel-dried his mane, happily leaning into my paw when I scratched behind his ears. I ruffled his mane impossibly in the process. Pieces of black and silver fur stuck out haphazardly in all directions, though a few wet strands remained plastered to his forehead.
With a gentle paw, I smoothed them back, leaning in to kiss his brow. "I love you, you know," I murmured, closing my eyes briefly as he rested his forehead against mine. "Even if you are a muddy, little poof-ball."
"Meanie," he accused, blue eyes sparkling as he tugged on my mane in retaliation.
"Admit it; your love for me is unconditional."
The sweet kiss to my cheek a moment later was enough to prove it. Even the short bout of coughing that followed it was endearing, in a way.
We lapsed back into companionable quietude, Munkustrap humming to himself over the softer crackling of the fire at my back. The tune was pleasant, though it was nothing I recognized. It reminded me of our mother, that same unfamiliar kind of melody. A lot of things about Munkustrap reminded me of her. She smiled easily, laughed often. Those stormy blue eyes had never suited either of their temperaments.
Munkustrap let out a surprised giggle, pitching forward slightly just as I was wiping off the last of the mud caked on a slim calf. I hadn't intended to send him into a fit of giggles the first time. It had only been an absent brush of my fingers over the back of his knee. A bony knee nearly collided with my chest as I tickled him again, experimentally.
"Ticklish today, are we?" I teased, looking up to see him glowering at me.
"You wouldn't dare," he said, laying his ears back in warning. For all that it sounded like a challenge, there was a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.
Nonchalant, I shrugged, offering my best smirk.
"Mac, don't even— Maaaaaaac!" he wailed, his warning trailing off into an indignant squawk as I pulled him into my lap in a tangle of limbs and half-sheathed claws.
Little shrieks of delight filled the air as he squirmed at the mercy of my paws. He was dreadfully ticklish in numerous places, not only the backs of his knees. Anywhere near his neck, though particularly beneath his chin, was a prime target; the inside of his elbows, oddly enough. I had theorized that, once someone got him giggling, he became so oversensitive that he truly was ticklish everywhere.
Breathlessly, he begged, "Mercy! M-mercy!"
"No mercy, Kitten," I growled playfully, provoking a fresh peal of giggles. It was best to quit while he was still having fun, before he landed an elbow in my jaw, so I only kept up my "merciless" onslaught for a few seconds more, just to hear him laugh.
Munkustrap slumped back against my chest, sides heaving with exertion. He was breathing heavily, and judging by the congestion in his lungs it was clear that we had been in the rain more than long enough for him to breathe in a significant amount of moisture. More likely than not, he would spend the next few days in bed, but I could hazard a guess that it wasn't serious enough to prove life-threatening as long as I kept him warm and dry. Mother would have killed me for being so irresponsible with him.
Father could always kill me for it in the morning, in her stead.
It didn't surprise me that he hadn't yet come by looking for Munkustrap, considering Mother's position in the tribe. The service had the potential to last long into the night, regardless of the weather. The downpour had diminished considerably, but the prospect of leaving the warmth and security of my own den was becoming increasingly less attractive.
Munkustrap yawned, sprawled across my lap. I found myself yawning in return, tempted to simply fall asleep where I sat, warmed by the fire and the kitten I held. But the fire would eventually burn out, leaving the floor cold. Not the most desirable choice for a bed.
"Are you gonna take me home?"
"Not while it's raining," I answered, trying to ignore the vague twinge in my chest. Home was somewhere other than where I was. "I know you would rather sleep in your bed, but we'll have to make due with mine for tonight."
"'Kay… I'd rather stay with you, anyway, Mac," he said, yawing again before smiling up at me, his blue eyes sleepy and unfocused beneath thick eyelashes.
Several joints groaned and popped in protest as I stood stiffly. Little fingers twined their way into my mane, curling the tangled black and red strands around them, and playing with my mane as he often did.
Throwing aside the damp blanket he had been sitting on, I peeled the others back, feeling his fingers slide from my mane as I did so. After a quick check to confirm that the water had not soaked through to the mattress, I laid him down, pulling the covers up to his chin. He frowned, tugging them down further and smoothing out the wrinkles.
"Aren't you going to bed, too?" He rolled onto his side, adorable even when he was pouting. He lifted the corner of the blankets, looking pointedly at me. "I don't want to sleep all by myself."
"As long as you don't hog the covers, Kitten," I said, covering my mouth with a paw as I yawned. I slid into bed beside him, smiling as he immediately settled snugly against my chest, burying his face in the thick fur.
"'night, Mac. Love you," he murmured sleepily.
"Mmm, I love you, too," I said drowsily, lips moving against the soft black and silver of his mane. "Sweet dreams, brother mine."
Silence enveloped us comfortably, and I closed my eyes, listening to the soft sounds of his breathing, feeling the steady rise and fall of his chest as I held him, soothed by his familiar warmth. With nearly unconscious effort, I matched the rhythm of my breathing to his.
The morning would bring new things, I knew, but for now we could just dream.
A/N: The rating of this fic will go up in the future, due to the addition of a slash relationship. (Well, two, but you'll find all of that out at a later date) Please note that this chapter is exactly what it appears to be, but later chapters (much later) will feature a less platonic relationship between Macavity and Munkustrap.
Reviews are appreciated, critique is encouraged.