Wanderlust
by Positively
Pairing: Alfred/Matthew
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DISCLAIMER: Hidekaz Himaruya owns the characters of Axis Powers Hetalia. East of the Sun and West of the Moon is some Norwegian fairytale, brought to my attention through Edith Pattou's lovely novel East.
This is all AozoraNoShita's fault because she wrote How Does a Bear Knock on the Door? Hers is a Romerica retelling of a fairy tale with a talking bear (Snow White and Rose Red), which reminded me of my favorite fairy tale with a talking bear. Only I AmeriCanized it and I'm not as funny.
Summary: Arthur's family is in trouble. Alfred is kidnapped by a polar bear on the offchance that it helps somehow. The polar bear is called Kumajirou, but at night he's a man who sleeps in Alfred's bed. His name is Matthew. The Troll King Ivan has a thing for Matthew's skin. To save it, Alfred must journey to an unfindable castle located east of the sun and west of the moon. Alfred/Matthew, some onesided Ivan/Matthew
This is going to be a three-shot, most likely. No bestiality, cross my heart.
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He strung himself across the harp like a torture instrument, his taut muscles pulled into painfully graceful lines. His head rested against the strings of the upper octave, so that if he were to pluck at a high note the sound would have been muffled and flat. His foot moved the pedal up-down-up-down methodically, a fixed rhythm counterpoint to the graceful artistry of his arms' motion. He considered the anatomy of the instrument: the strings that stretched between the neck and the soundboard, the column that dropped to the floor with a gentle curve much like a bell or heart, the way the body of the harp rested on his knees, and the wing-flares touching his toes, and how could anybody think of this instrument as anything but a living creature?
His hands slowed and finally plucked out the final, slow-moving notes of his improvisation. The music sat in the room, humming.
"Wonderful, Alfred. Do you have a harp at home?"
"No, Mr. Edelstein. I carved a lyre for myself when I was seven, but that's the most musical practice I get. My father says he hasn't got the money to be spending on musical instruments and such frips."
Mr. Edelstein frowned. "Ah, that would explain your tendency to strum. You see, harps are usually plucked between fingers and thumb, but you have an odd way of turning your knuckles outward, and barely touching the strings with your fingertips…strumming, like with a lyre." He circled the instrument to observe Alfred's posture. "We'll have to fix that."
"So, will you consider it, sir?" Alfred asked, bouncing up and down on the bench. "I'll work extra hard, I swear it."
"And your father? Are you quite certain that he will not miss your hands on the farm?"
For the first time, Alfred hesitated. He had just reached his fifteenth birthday, and was therefore expected to help his six brothers with the heavy field work so that their father could retire to the woman-jobs. Alfred, as the youngest son, had previously taken care of milking cows and feeding animals and cooking and mending (a sort of ironic penance and tribute to their mother, who had died giving birth to him).
"Well, you know how big my family is, Mr. Edelstein," he hedged. "I doubt they'll miss me much."
"Very well, Alfred. But remember: I'm only doing this because you have such musical promise. This is a great favor to you and your family."
I really doubt Father will see it that way.
"I expect you to work for me for four hours a day, five days a week. You will provide your own meals. You may only practice on my harp before or after the shop closes. There will be no hourly wage. You will be paid in lessons and opportunities to practice."
"Yes, sir." Alfred resumed his excited bouncing. He figured he might as well savor his enjoyment while he could. The second his family found out about this, there would be hell to pay.
This prediction came true that evening after dinner. "Alfred, come here please," Arthur said tiredly.
"Oooooh," chorused Alfred's six older brothers.
"Shut up and get out of my house," their father snapped. Matthias, Anders, Fridrik, Lars, Berwald, and Tino filed out the front door in an orderly line, each turning to the brother behind with a sardonic look. Finally they were alone, and Arthur regarded Alfred silently for an agonizing thirty seconds.
"Why have you done this?"
There was no point in feigning ignorance. "Because I love music!" he burst out, his belligerence a sharp contrast to Arthur's tired defeat. He'd been waiting to explain himself for years, and now that there was a hint of an invitation to do so, he could do nothing but talk. "I'm not going to inherit the farm, and you know that. Matthias is going to own it and keep Anders and possibly Fridrik on as stewards, but the rest of us are going to have to strike out on our own."
Arthur frowned. "Alfred, you know they wouldn't—"
"No, listen! I know that you need our help in the fields, but what are we supposed to do when we get married and move on? Berwald and Tino have been trapped here with dirt and hay while they should have been out learning a trade! What do you expect them to do? Huh?"
"Alfred—"
"And at least there will be something left over for them, but I'm a seventh son, and what on earth am I going to have? Nothing."
"Alfred, please stop yelling."
"And I've been doing women's chores since I was old enough to hold a gods-cursed needle! Is it so wrong for me to have taken the one chance I've ever had to do something I want?"
"No."
Alfred, who had been pacing madly during this tirade, stopped abruptly. "No?" He glanced at his father, who, he noticed for the first time, sat hunched as an old man in his seat. His grizzled face was lined with exhaustion, and his eyes held a curious sympathy.
"No, Alfred. It isn't wrong. I know…I know it isn't exactly fair to you, keeping you in the fields to work for me. If you managed to arrange an apprenticeship for yourself, well, then, I support you. I know that Roderich and Elizaveta have no children. I suppose they'll grant you the shop when they retire?"
"Um, yes, that's the idea, I believe." Alfred personally had no intentions of running a business, but he would allow his father some peace of mind.
A year passed, and Mr. Edelstein taught Alfred in the ways of the harp. He never managed to undo the damage of years of playing the lyre—"Once a lyrist, always a lyrist"—but in some ways that gave Alfred a stylistic edge. He learned scales, major and minor and chromatic, a cascade of notes that fell on one's ears like a waterfall or summer shower. He learned to read music, though he generally preferred to puzzle a song out for himself, and play it from memory. He had a natural flair for the dramatic, and a tendency towards broken chords and tangled melodies. "Smarmy and over-legato," Mr. Edelstein would harrumph, but Elizaveta, the musicman's wife, always winked and mouthed Jealous behind his back.
The farm, however, had had a rough year. Too much spring rain had blighted the wheat crop, and Arthur barely had enough food for his own family, much less to sell in the market. There were practically no excess funds to buy necessities like fruit, flour, and cloth. The seven brothers and their father grew—or rather shrank—into gaunt frames clothed in shabby rags. Matthias and Arthur spoke of finances in low voices while the other six boys huddled together in front of the hearth. They heard one phrase repeated often: "…can't go on for much longer."
Things became desperate when Tino fell ill.
Alfred took temporary leave from his apprenticeship to help, but it wasn't enough. The season progressed into late autumn, and though Tino was the smallest of the brothers (even slighter than young Alfred), his convalescence was a huge blow to the harvesting process. Arthur had to stay by his bedside during the day, trying to cool his fever and keep him hydrated. Berwald, his fraternal twin, wandered the fields like a lost man. They didn't have enough money for a doctor. They didn't have enough money to hire field hands to help with the harvest.
"If this sickness doesn't lift, he will not survive the winter snows," Matthias whispered to Arthur, who was looking grayer by the day.
That autumn was a cold one, and icy rainstorms dropped out of the perpetually darkened sky. The six brothers lit a fire on nights when the cold became too much to bear, and they lifted Tino out of his bed—my, but he was frightfully thin, even thinner than the others!—and they huddled in a single seething mass, like a many-limbed creature. Tino's skin was damp and feverish. They clung to their brother, unafraid to hold him, though they felt the touch of death in the way his hot paper skin stretched over coat-hanger bone.
On one such night, there came a scratching on the door.
Arthur and his youngest son had been sitting at the table, discussing the future of Alfred's apprenticeship. The son insisted that he wouldn't go back until Tino got better, but Arthur knew that he would be better taken care of in the musicman's home. Elizaveta would certainly feed him out of pity, at least; and though he'd never voice it aloud, a sixteen-year-old boy's appetite was a terrible burden on a starving family. Arthur was about to suggest selling the farm when the sound came.
"I'll go see what it is," Alfred offered. His father opened his mouth to give warning—That sounds like a wild animal, best be careful—but Alfred had already bounded across the room and flung the door wide, ever fearless. The wind and cold rain howled inside, and the flames in the hearth guttered; but not one of the eight men paid it any heed. Instead they turned to stare at the great white bear that had suddenly appeared in the middle of their living room.
It said, in an unbelievably deep voice: "Close the door."
Arthur's six sons in front of the hearth huddled closer together. Tino clutched himself to Berwald's chest; the others gaped silently, as though the cold wind had stolen their voices. Arthur was pinned to his chair with fear.
Alfred walked calmly to the door and shut it.
"Good evening," said the white bear.
There was a silence.
"Uh, same to you," Alfred replied. The rest of his family continued to gape.
The great bear turned to Arthur. "If you give to me your seventh son, I will make you as rich as you are now poor. The boy who lies beside death—" he gestured with a great paw in Tino's direction "—will be healed. Give to me your seventh son, and it shall be so."
Arthur stared in horror at the bear. "What?"
It was a general question, meant to encompass the entirety of the situation: "What's a bear doing in my living room?" and "What do you want with my youngest son?" and "What gives you the power to increase wealth or heal sickness?" and "No, really, what's a bear doing in my living room?" But the bear seemed to think he was hard of hearing, and repeated the offer.
"I will go," Alfred said.
Every soul in the room turned to stare at him. "I will go," Alfred repeated. "I'm the seventh son. This is my decision, not my father's. If it will save my brother's life and my family's finances, then I will go gladly."
"No, Alfred," Arthur said, panicked, suddenly regaining his voice. "You don't have to—I won't sacrifice one son for the sake of—that's a giant bear, did you notice?"
"I've always wanted to travel, Father. I want to do this."
"Don't be ridiculous! I won't allow you—"
The bear cut in with a ferocious sound that reverberated off walls and shook bones. (It had actually just been clearing its throat.) "I will return in seven days. By then you will have made a decision." It turned to face the door and stared in consternation for a few moments. Alfred, understanding, stepped forward and turned the doorknob. "Thank you," said the giant bear politely, and vanished into the night.
Alfred spent that week listening to his father's arguments and researching polar bears.
"Alfred, you will not do this." The white bear is a solitary wanderer, never moving with a pack or even a mate. "Your brother would not thank you for it." He walks on all fours, but when he stands he is nearly ten feet tall. "And what do you expect it to do with you anyway? Feed you dinner? No, Alfred, you will be the dinner." His eyes are black. His nose is black. His paws are black and the five claws on each of his paws are black. "How on earth do you expect it to save your brother and make us wealthy? It's a bear." The rest of him is snow white. "Will we ever even see you again?" The white bear has an extra eyelid to protect its eyes from snow glare. "I will not allow this. I am your father, and you will obey me." He lives by sense of smell.
"I have lost a wife. I am about to lose a son. Do not make me lose another."
The white bear has forty two teeth with long canines for piercing flesh.
Berwald said, simply, "Please."
Tino was constantly delirious with fever at this point, and made no contribution to either side of the argument. Matthias, Fridrik, Anders, and Lars remained silent and thoughtful. They were farmers, ignorant of the philosophy of ethics save a vague recognition of the word; but they were humans, and they felt that there was something very wrong about sacrificing one child for the welfare of another.
Then again, here was Tino, languishing in fatal fever, and so bony that he practically clattered when he was moved. And there was Alfred, willing to run off with a talking white bear on the off-chance that it helped somehow.
"Please," Berwald said. His twin, his other half. Alfred didn't blame him.
Finally, Matthias said, "Father, none of us will live much longer without bread to eat. Winter is coming, and if we must sell the farm to pay our debts, we'll die of exposure or starvation. If this bear will really do as he says—and I see no reason to disbelieve a talking bear, because, you know, he talks, and now I'd believe anything—if this bear can really bring us wealth, we'll save eight lives and not just one."
Arthur pressed his face into his hands. "I cannot make this decision."
Alfred groaned in frustration. "It's not yours to make! It's mine! And I will go when the white bear comes for me." He bid goodbye to Roderich and Elizaveta without explanation; he packed a small sack of clothes and concealed on his person a whittling knife. He toiled with his brothers in the field by day and huddled with them before the hearth at night. He wiped Tino's forehead with a damp cloth. He squeezed Berwald's shoulder comfortingly.
And then the week was over, and again came the scratching noise at the door.
"What is your choice?" asked the polar bear, after Alfred had let him inside.
"I will go with you," replied Alfred, in a bold and steady voice. He turned to embrace each of his six brothers, and finally his father.
"This is the right decision, Father. I can feel it. Do I go with your blessing?"
The arms around his shoulders trembled. "This is insane, Alfred."
"No one better for it, then," Alfred replied with a quirk to his smile. He pulled away from his father's embrace and ordered the bear, "Drop to the floor, and I will climb onto your back." Even the bear appeared perplexed by his boldness, but lowered its belly to the cold stone as per instruction. Alfred had just enough time to hug its great sides with his legs and bury his hands in its fur; and then they were bounding across the snow, the wind playing secret music in his ears.
Alfred had always been considered a bit off. His vibrant personality was something that the people of his village had never encountered; his peculiar sense of humor often fell flat. The townspeople were well immersed in the unpretentious mediocrity of cattle health and traveling merchants and next week's weather, so they didn't quite know how to respond to Alfred's fanciful dreams of travel, or knowledge of foreign politics, or philosophical musings. The ordinariness of his family only emphasized his unlikely beginnings. "There's always a sport," people said of the quirky musician born to a family of seven farmers.
It wasn't just a matter of odd behavior for a farm-boy: in some ways his demeanor was outright inhuman. Alfred seemed immune to self-consciousness and social convention. Nothing surprised or scared him. He loved heights, both physical ones and mental ones. He climbed trees. His head took up permanent residence in the clouds.
He took everything in stride—including journeys made on the backs of polar bears.
"Are you afraid?" it asked.
"No," Alfred replied honestly. He was, however, rather interested in the bear's fur. It was extraordinarily soft and long and warm, so that when he burrowed his arms into it—down to his elbows, it reached—his fingers thawed in just a few moments. Beneath his legs, he could feel the great shifting muscles of the beast, a machine of bone and sinew and raw power. But he was not afraid.
Time warped while he was on the bear's back, stretching and bunching up and tearing at the seams. He felt like the journey had taken a thousand years; he felt like it had passed in an instant. It was very much like looking back on an uneventful year, and being unable to discern whether it had been a long one or a short one. The only sensations he experienced were the shifting motions of the white bear beneath him, and the sharp contrast between its warmth and the cold wind (made all the sharper by their incredible speed). He did not notice the changing between night and day, as his face was buried in the beast's fur for fear of frostbite on his nose and cheekbones.
However much time had passed, the bear eventually slowed at the base of a tall, ice-scabbed mountain. It dropped to the ground, allowing its passenger to dismount. Alfred fell to his knees with a surge of unexpected weakness—probably from lack of food and sleep, though he had no idea of the duration of said deprivation—and the bear shuffled to the face of the mountain. It pressed a huge paw to the cliff face, and instantly a piece of the mountain detached itself from the whole, and swung open like a door.
Alfred had meanwhile managed to pull himself into a standing position (though a new wave of dizziness struck him at the sight of a mountain swinging open). "Lean on my side," the bear rumbled. Alfred did so, apologetically gripping it by the fur of its neck. The bear did not seem to mind too much.
They limped down a dark echoing passageway, which the young man, despite his exhaustion, observed with his characteristic curiosity. Eventually they reached an area that mimicked an entrance hall, and Alfred smelled the most wonderful aroma he'd ever beheld. Absence of food certainly makes the stomach grow fonder, and he had been ill-fed for even longer than the bear-back trip had taken. There was some kind of beef stew simmering over the fireplace, and warm hunks of bread on the table, and a pitcher of golden liquid. Alfred fixed himself a bowl of stew (uncaring that to serve oneself in a guest's home without permission is incredibly gauche) and sat down at the table to stuff his face.
When he had eaten two helpings of the glorious stew, he folded his arms on the table and nested his head in their crook, and fell straight into sleep. He did not notice that the white bear had wandered off.
Upon waking, Alfred immediately set out to explore the mountain home. He decided that this must be a castle of some nature, as the rooms he passed were numerous and often richly furnished. He had no idea of what a polar bear might want with such a castle, but chose not to dwell; he merely wished to discover. He got himself gloriously lost.
The passageways were made of gray stone, uncarpeted so that his footsteps echoed eerily, as did the crackling of the everlasting torches ensconced on the walls. Alfred knew that they were everlasting because he had sat in front of one for what felt like at least two hours. It did not burn down by any noticeable degree. Magic, he thought with wonder, as though the talking bear had not been proof enough. This castle is magical. And I'm living in it.
It was probably underground, he decided, because the only window he could find was over a platform at the very top of a ridiculously lengthy spiral staircase. It was more of a skylight than a window, really, and all he could see were a few very large blades of grass and the sky. He felt dizzy when he pressed his face against it, leaning over the small platform's railing, knowing that if he fell he would shatter on the stone floor below. His bones would smash like glass. Perhaps break through his skin, and bleed. Perhaps he would die before he could feel it. Perhaps he would not. Alfred leaned out farther.
Back in the lower levels was a huge library, as high-ceilinged and silently sacred as a cathedral, with bookshelves lined against every wall and spread in neat rows across the room. It was eerie and untouchable; Alfred's boisterous nature rebelled against the containment and the silence of books. He moved on and discovered the music rooms, which were much more to his taste.
They were all on the same wing of the castle, or underground labyrinth, or whatever this place was; each instrument was given its own moderately-sized room, carpeted so that the sound would not bounce off the cold stone floor, to echo and tangle with the notes that were to follow. He saw a room of flutes, and a room with a huge piano-forte, and even a room with lyres carved out of types of wood he'd never seen. But he spared little observation for these areas; he was searching for something specific.
In the room closest to the library was a harp.
It was the most beautiful harp he had ever seen, more beautiful than he had even realized instruments could be, so beautiful it put Roderich's to shame. He sat at the bench, a man possessed, and began to play.
And play. And play. The harp sounded even more beautiful than it looked, if that was possible. He strummed and plucked the strings until his fingers bled, until he was once again lightheaded with hunger, until his eyes fluttered with exhaustion; but he couldn't have stopped if he wanted to. The music held him hostage, and he loved it anyway, terrible case of captor-love had Alfred, and how appropriate, him captured here in this castle both against his will and by his own request.
A movement from the corner of his eye roused him from his music-trance, and he turned to the doorway to see the white bear sitting on the floor, watching him. Alfred had no idea how long it had been there.
"What's your name?" he asked abruptly. "Where do you come from? Why do you have a castle? What are all these instruments for? Who made my dinner? What do you want with me?"
The polar bear stood and shuffled its four paws shyly. Alfred was rather amazed that an enormous white bear could manage to do anything shyly, but there it was. "You may call me Kumajirou. I had another name once, but I no longer recall it."
"That's sad," Alfred commented blithely. "I'm Alfred. What about everything else? Are you a man or woman?"
"I am neither. I am a polar bear. I was a man, and now I'm a male polar bear. I'm male."
"That's what I asked."
"No, you asked if I was a man, but I'm not a human, which means—never mind." Its—his, apparently—eyes were incredibly expressive, exactly like those of a man, but made all the more haunting by their being set within a beast's face. At the moment, they reflected exasperation. "I have something to give you." He held out in one great furry paw a tiny silver bell, hung on a silver chain.
"What's this for?"
"If you desire anything at all, ring that and I will come," replied the bear.
Alfred rang it.
A silence. Alfred watched the bear expectantly.
"Well?" asked Kumajirou. "I'm right here. What do you need?"
"A nap would be good," Alfred said, slipping the chain over his neck. "Have you got a spare bed or a couch or something?"
The bear beckoned awkwardly. Such human gestures did not befit a beast of his size and shape. They passed the library, and Alfred noticed his companion's longing stare.
"Do you like books?"
"I think I did, back when I could hold them," the bear answered absentmindedly. His eyes were filled with a sadness that defied description. Alfred fancied he could see it in there, folded in on itself, the kind of misery that only got deeper and darker the more it was unraveled. Those eyes were truly haunting.
"Can you remember anything about before? Do you remember a family? A place? What you looked like? Anything?"
"Not really, no. Sometimes…at night…I remember things. In the daytime, I recall the remembrance, but never the memories themselves."
"How long have you been in this castle? Is this a castle? Why is it so big?"
"Do you ever stop asking questions?"
"No, not really," Alfred replied cheerfully.
They passed through the kitchen again, and Alfred's stomach made a loud, hungry noise. They stopped so that he might eat, and then he was led into a large chamber. Alfred collapsed onto the incredibly soft bed, exhausted, facedown on the heavenly pillow. He did not see the torchlight fade.
Sleep had nearly found him when he felt a weight settle in on the other side of the bed. Must be Lars, he thought, escaping from Matthias the Sleep-Kicker. He rolled over, trying to get comfortable. It wouldn't do to oversleep again; his father would be furious, and the cows even more so. They don't milk themselves, Alfred, Arthur would say…
And then Alfred was wide awake.
He was not at the farmhouse, and that was not his brother who had climbed into bed beside him.
Alfred stared straight ahead, too afraid to move. Should he attack the intruder? Flee? Shout for help? Ah, the bell!
His hand went to his neck and he flicked the small silver bell, but it made no sound. Frantic, Alfred sat up and tried again; and in so doing, he realized that not even the sheets hissed as he moved. He couldn't hear his own harsh breath, which he knew was coming in gasps. Had he gone deaf? No, he could tell. Some kind of magic had stolen the sound from the room. Alfred, an innately expressive person, was horrified to have the ability to make noise taken from him.
He felt a hand close around his own, still clutching the bell. He gasped noiselessly.
The hand released him, and then Alfred had the sudden impression of space. It was not the sound of the body moving away, obviously; or the sight, because the room had become as dark as pitch; but Alfred's sense of touch remained intact, and there was a rush of cooler air, or a shifting of heat, that suggested sudden loss.
Heart pounding, Alfred lay back down against the pillows. He drifted into a frightened and bewildered sleep.
The following morning, Alfred was not quite sure that the bed intruder hadn't been a dream. The torches were lit once again, and he was alone in the wide bed. He told himself it was just a nightmare, and didn't believe it for a second.
Breakfast was laid out in the table-room, still warm (with magic! Alfred thought with a little thrill). He ate and explored a bit, discovering a hall with many writing desks and papers and pens, and a room full of maps and globes. This gave him the idea to create his own map of the underground castle, which he decided to begin at once.
He did not begin at once. Instead, he sought out the harp room and played again for hours.
Kumajirou appeared midway through his scales, which were second-nature to Alfred at this point. "Hello," he greeted cheerfully, breezing his way through E Major and segueing gracefully into B.
The bear rumbled vaguely, which Alfred supposed passed for a greeting, and sat heavily upon the floor. "There is sheet music in the cabinet," he said. Alfred did not respond, caught on a peculiar chord in A Sharp Minor.
Kumajirou stood, oddly gentle as always, and managed to open the aforementioned cabinet with his black claws. When he passed the sheet music to Alfred (who had figured out the chord in the meantime), his paw brushed against the soft human hand. And Alfred flashed back to the night before—the hand that had closed over his own; and he knew with unshakable certainty that the man in his bed and the bear were one and the same.
Understanding passed through them as Alfred caught and held Kumajirou's gaze. But they did not acknowledge it verbally. This was a silent magic, meant to be unspoken and unseen.
That night, the torches went out as before. Alfred had thought to keep adding oil the whole night through so that he might see his visitor, but the torches did not seem to require fuel. They burned and ceased to burn by unseen command. When the room was utterly dark, Alfred felt something climb into the bed and pull the blankets up.
He'd almost fallen asleep when he noticed a disturbance in the blankets. There was the slightest motion…tentatively, Alfred reached out across the gap between himself and the man. His hand brushed a shoulder and rested there, confirming his suspicion: the man was shivering. Out of fear? Perhaps cold? If Alfred's gut feeling was correct—if this was the white bear—the lack of fur would make him a little chilly.
Ignoring the acute bizarreness of the whole situation (as was his greatest skill), Alfred scooted closer. He let his hand remain on the other side of the bed, brushing the visitor's skin, offering what comfort he could.
Author's Note: The themes of the original fairytale included fear of sexuality, old-timey virtues, and female domesticity. As a twenty-first century feminist, I've flipped a lot of morals and meanings on their heads. Note that Alfred agrees to be taken, rather than being sent off with the strange bear involuntarily, as in the original story. Back in the day, Daddy married his daughter off against her will for money. These days daughters choose the disreputable "beasts" who'll take us far away from home, which Daddy doesn't like so much. Expect similar reversals throughout the story. Also, bear puns. Couldn't resist. If you find one, I'll give you a cookie.
A-anybody else cry when they read fairytales? GOD I wish they could be real. I'd go with that bear any day of the goddamn week
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