Disclaimer: rawrrkitty believes she is too silly to have anything to do with owning CATS.
A/N: rawrrkitty likes metaphors. She thinks they are fun. So she has written a story that is basically one big metaphor. She hopes any readers enjoy. She would also like to note that she wrote this on her iPod at 1 am, so errors and weirdness are most likely imminent.
(rawrrkitty knows that this is the second oneshot within something like 12 hours. rawrrkitty will update BB soon.)
Mugs - An Extended Metaphor
Tumblebrutus owns a mug. It is tall, painted in pastel colours that are dull, but warm. It's shaped like a vase and Tumblebrutus wonders if he might arrange flowers within it. Something tells Tumblebrutus that Plato would not appreciate that. From the mug, Tumblebrutus drinks joy and contentedness.
Tumblebrutus found the mug at the outskirts of the Junkyard, mingling with the rest of the junk and staring through air with his half-lidded eyes. Tumblebrutus took the mug home that day, rather pleased with his find.
His tall painted mug sits in his den, admired every day. Every day he drinks a smile from his Plato and maybe a kiss if he chooses his compliments right. He is careful with his mug because it is his favorite mug and he doesn't much like the other mugs in comparison to his Plato.
Sometimes, he might set his mug down a little too close to the edge of the table and it will topple, but Tumblebrutus will catch it, breathing a sigh of relief as he does. On one occasion, Tumblebrutus is careless and knocks the mug on its side, spilling the smiles and kisses all over the table, watching in horror as they drip to the floor. But Tumblebrutus is quick to clean up the mess and the mug retains only a scratch.
But then comes the day that Tumblebrutus loses his grip on the mug and it slips to the floor. Shatters in flashes of I hate you and tears and screaming. Tumblebrutus cries, picks up the pieces, glues them haphazardly together so that they fit, but barely. He sets the glued-together mug on a table and frowns at it. It is the same mug, but it is ready to fall apart. The pieces don't quite fit. It is an ugly thing now.
But he leaves it there and pretends that it's the same.
When he drinks from the mug, the smiles are uncertain. The glue comes apart with each drink and with one last apologetic shrug, the pieces come apart and Tumblebrutus is left with dust as Plato walks out of their home for good.
It's strange for Tumblebrutus not to have a favorite mug.
He tries others, of course. Tall mugs, short mugs, colorful mugs, plain mugs. But when he drinks from them, the smiles never taste quite as sweet.
Until he finds himself skirting round the edge of the Junkyard and comes upon a little, brightly decorated mug sitting alone atop a small pile of abandoned dishes. Pouncival smiles tentatively.
Tumblebrutus takes the new mug home. It's considerably smaller than his first favorite, but there's something very charming about the new one. He's very careful - so much that he doesn't drink from it at first, just leaves it on a shelf and smiles at it while apologetically taking other mugs from the shelf.
But then he finally takes the mug and drinks a smile, a kiss from it. And Tumblebrutus believes that he has found his new favorite mug.
Tumblebrutus doesn't let a scratch blemish his mug. When one day, a friend dares to mark it, Tumblebrutus chases them down and don't ever hurt my Pouncival again, do you hear me?
One day, Tumblebrutus tickles Pouncival, kisses him, pulls him a little closer than usual, eyes sparkling with a question. And in his haste, Tumblebrutus kicks the mug off the table. It shatters on the ground.
But they're too in love for silly metaphors now.