Chapter 2: Impulsive

"Is that Alice Cooper?"

Mr. Little paused as he was passing the living room to grab a snack from the kitchen. He stood in front of the couch where his eldest son sat, and raised a brow as he looked at the screen. "He's getting up in years."

After dinner, and changing out of his coffee-drenched clothes, the mouse was curled up on the right side of the couch, the smartphone with a PDF of his history textbook laying against the arm of the couch to his right. The television was on, but Stuart wasn't paying it much attention until Dad brought it up. "I heard he's having a comeback tour," Stuart declared.

"Ah! Really?" Not shy of traditional dad humor, Mr. Little put his foot down and moaned childishly. "Just as your mother declared we're done with live concerts."

The mouse looked up in surprise. "I didn't know you guys went to shows."

"Oh yeah! Well, we did. Long before George was born, we snuck out together and saw plenty of shows—Jon Bon Jovi. Styx. The Rolling Stones. I once caught a cigarette Mick Jagger dropped on the way into a stadium."

"Get out!" Stuart grinned. It wasn't often that their father disclosed such details about his youth to his kids, at least that were actually kinda cool.

"No, really! Of course, your mother was repulsed, but I kept it—somewhere, anyway." As his tangent story came to a close, he sighed. There were certain parts of middle age Frederick could accept. Gray nose hair, higher prescriptions, knee pain and standby Tylenol. And an incircle and otherwise unexplainable appetite for nachos at nine PM. But slowly losing activity on the weekend was the part about growing older that Mr. Little—as he was more commonly referred to as, now—found the hardest to swallow. "I guess those days really are over, now."

"It's not about that news report, right?" Stuart asked, unable to hide the groan in his voice. "It was just one freak accident at one arena! She doesn't really think—"

"She does," he cut him off. Realizing how harsh his voice sounded, he corrected himself. "Look, I love her more than anything, but you know how she… well… worries.."

Stuart paused as his ears dropped. He may not have known Eleanor for as long as his father but, oh, he knew this too well. He also knew her paranoia was getting worse as she was getting older, and whatever the cause, it bothered him to see it start to encroach on his father's life, too. "Dad, you deserve to go to at least one more concert after all this time. Maybe you could talk to her?"

Frederick shook his head. "No good. Once she's made up her mind, it's too late. Either I'll have to wait for her to forget the accident story, or go by myself. But then what? Sneak out?"

He put his hands on his hips and looked at Stuart. He was wearing a smirk that was meant to convey that it was a joke.

But Stuart didn't smirk back. And Frederick realized why. He was seriously considering it. "Maybe with some friends?"

Mr. Little crossed his arms and dropped the smile, staring into space as he weighed the consequences. "That's… an idea. Though I'd have to come up with a cover story." He peered down at Stuart suspiciously. "And trust that my sons would keep it."

"Sorry, I don't know what you're talking about," Stuart said with a smirk, and a contented flick of his tail.

"Then it's settled," Mr. Little grinned back, in a way that insisted that it was most definitely not. To change the subject, he peered at the text on the phone screen. "The War of 1812. Guess those grades didn't come from anywhere. Just glad that the PDFs came in on time."

"No kidding," Stuart sighed, saying his last words to his father before the man disappeared up the stairs. "Thank goodness for digital textbooks."

With George using the room upstairs to play more video games while in a headset call with friends, Stuart stayed downstairs to give himself the best chance of concentrating.

Sometimes he missed the days before Martha was born, when he had a room to himself, even if it was lonely. At least he could study undisturbed. But he wouldn't trade his little sister for anything. As it was, she was the only member of the family he felt looked up to him in any way, rather than down at him.

Metaphorically speaking, of course.

And of course, the passage of time had come with some advantages. Up through middle school, he'd have to leave physical textbooks in every class, quickly copy notes in his handmade notebooks, or have teachers print copies of single pages for him to use as reference, which was embarrassing. Maintaining a 3.9 GPA wasn't easy when moving textbooks for someone Stuart's size was the equivalent of lugging stones for the pyramid.

Nowadays, he or his parents just called the publisher and got the digital copies, or used a code to unlock them from the website, which was slowly becoming more common. This is what he planned on doing when he got to college, and the book load would surely multiply.

He didn't know how mice could've ever possibly got through school before the 21st century. And he didn't have his biological parents around to ask.

"Jesus, are you still at it?"

Stuart looked up from the screen again to find George clomping down the stairs. Unlike Stuart, George's changes in puberty had been anything but subtle. Almost as tall as their father, and clad in a brandless black sweater and blue jeans, he was a world away from the short, nerdy kid he used to be. All except for his glasses, which despite being black framed, did not exactly fit the anti-conformist ensemble he wore nowadays.

"You already got accepted into like, a dozen schools!"

"And they can take the offers back if my grades drop," Stuart told him, kicking his feet playfully. "You know, you're still a freshman, George. You could amp up the studies and get a ton of scholarships, too."

"Yeah, I could." George answered before taking a seat on the couch. Though his tone suggested that he had no intent on following through with his brother's suggestion.

He reached for the remote that sat between them, but Stuart stopped him. "Ah, ah!" the mouse said, hopping up and stepping on the edge to prevent it from being picked up. "It's my TV time."

"Come on! You're not even watching it!"

"I like the background noise. And besides, I thought you were in a game."

"I left the call. Gigi's coming over in a few minutes."

"This late?" asked Stuart, impressed. "What for?"

"She's got something to give me," George shrugged.

Stuart could only imagine what on earth that meant. But he figured it was better if he didn't know. Even better still if his parents were oblivious. A 9pm randevu didn't sound very innocent. He turned his attention back to the phone screen and pretended he wasn't interested.

Despite its name, MTV didn't host that much in the way of music nowadays, but he'd caught the channel at a lucky hour. The mixed music gene block had functioned alright as background noise. However, when the mouse dared to look up from his phone, he rolled his eyes, wishing he'd picked his music player instead.

The video that played featured a death metal band, where the zombie girls appearing in the wasteland background were clad more in mud and coal than anything resembling actual clothing.

When the mysterious spell the girls cast over him at last broke, George turned his remarkably disinterested brother, boggled. "I can't believe you can sit there and look at a book when that's on screen!"

"It's not exactly my taste, George," Stuart told him, cocking his head. Since the music video ushered in the start of Headbanger's Ball, which was particularly difficult to study to, he pushed himself to his feet and went to the remote, tapping the channel-up button with the tip of his sneaker.

Abruptly, the station changed from a preview of a music video of the next flash in the pan rapper, to a tampon commercial. George turned to his brother, holding his hand out, palm side up. "Dude."

"George, you're not starving for female company." Stuart folded his arms across his chest, just as a buzzing noise from George's pocket caught both their attention. "Matter of fact, she's here, now."

The black-clad Freshman fished his phone from his sweater pocket and looked at the incoming text. "Oh shi—you're right." He launched from the couch, and ran to the door. "Don't say anything!" he whispered.

"Relax, I'm not gonna snitch," Stuart replied quietly.

He leaned back against the back of the couch, and tapped the channel-up button until he found something he could study to. Unfortunately, the batteries were on the verge of dying, and he knew the house was out of new ones. So he patiently tapped the button however many times it took, until he got to a station he was satisfied with. "Good old Animal Planet," he sighed, sinking back down into the cushion by the phone.

George and company could make fun of the irony of a mouse voluntarily watching a channel dedicated to animals, but Stuart didn't care. He liked learning about the different species that inhabited the planet. And most of the narrators such as David Attenborough had calming voices that soothed his nerves, especially after a day like today.

He was laying on his stomach, taking down notes on the War of 1812 for a good few minutes when the trickle of Adam Harrington's excited voice started pulling his attention away. "We're counting down the top 10 most extreme lovers in the animal kingdom! And comparing them to how humans play the dating game!"

Stuart's ear slowly and involuntarily, began to turn towards the television. And before he realized it, he was looking up.

The Most Extreme was a pretty benign show, targeted at kids—or at least he thought it was. He almost thought he'd heard Harrington wrong. But sure enough, the opener was packed with royalty free videos of rubber-house era cartoons, and live action clips of human couples in movie make out sessions. All cut with clips of animals in pairs.

Huh. Never saw this episode before. He sighed and slapped his tiny pencil down on the little notebook and rested his head in his palm. Studying just wasn't going to happen tonight. Why bother when he knew he couldn't stay focused?

He yawned and let the program play before his eyes. He'd downed two more cups of coffee before settling down in the living room that night, and it hadn't done him any good.

Quickly, however, he felt himself perk up, as the topic peaked his interest. He reached forward and turned up the volume, just a bit.

"This Tasmanian Devil has sniffed out the location of a female. And when it comes to this animal species, it's not only other males he's ready to battle for mating."

Stuart's eyes widened as he watched the video cut to a wildlife cam caught footage of a male Tasmanian Devil encountering the female in a cave, and then, without warning, pouncing on her. Instantly, he regretted turning up the sound on the TV, as the room seemed to be taken over by the jarring, almost unreal sound of the marsupials biting and scratching each other. Shrill shrieks and throaty shouts, as the male bite female on the face. Initially, he winced and turned away, but as curiosity took hold, he found himself able to look at it.

Actually… it was hard to look away.

Geez... It was times like this he was glad he was a simple American city mouse. He couldn't imagine being expected to bite anyone for any reason, let alone someone he was supposed to...

"Having won over the female with his fighting spirit, the male continues the courtship by switching from gentle bites, to loving licks."

Maybe it was impulsive. Contagious. Like yawning when you see another person yawn. But Stuart felt his tongue roll over his lips.

He felt his tail begin to rise into the air, and he grabbed it and pulled it down besides his legs. His body tensed up, heart hammering in his chest, hairs atop his head standing on edge.

"The hell are those things?"

"Aagh!" Stuart gasped, pushing himself into a seated position on his knees. "I-I-I was just…"

And he realized who was watching him. Both a miracle, and a curse. Snowbell was flicking his tail and looking from the screen, to Stuart, and smirking. "Jumpy tonight, are we?"

"You just startled me because I'm tired," Stuart told him, looking away. But beneath his fur, his cheeks were burning.

"Uh-huh," the cat replied. Stuart wanted him to leave. But when it came to doing exactly what the mouse did not want him to do, Snowbell seemed to be a psychic. So the irritable cat hopped onto the right side of the couch, and sat down. "Those are the ugliest rats I've ever seen."

"They're tasmanian devils. Marsupials."

"Huh. Not much like that Looney Tunes character." Snowbell watched on quietly, and both he and Stuart winced and let out a collective 'oooh!' as yet another clip of an attack was shown. "So that's why they call them devils," Snowbell said. "Yeesh. And I thought alley cat fights were nasty."

"Want me to change it?" asked Stuart.

Snowbell paused before answering. "Nah. Not... really."

And then it was just two animals, cat and mouse, watching Animal Planet. And it was the most awkward, tense, and yet oddly contented moment they'd had in all of Stuart's time there.

But Snowbell's ear did quiver when the courtship paid off, and the male began to get what he wanted. "Man, she can take it."

Stuart didn't answer. He was too afraid of how shaky his voice might come out. He was sitting against the back of the couch now, his eyes glued to the screen.

"Frederick? Did I leave my sewing box downstairs?"

Hearts leapt to their throats. As if for once in their lives, their minds were one, Snowbell and Stuart turned to each other, reflecting the same, exact expression of abject terror.

"CHANGE IT!" Snowbell shouted. "Change it now!"

But Stuart had leaped to his feet before the cat had even closed his mouth. He smacked the channel up button, but now, the remote wouldn't respond at all. "No! The battery's dead!" He leaped onto it and began stomping on it in a panic, to no avail. "No! No!"

"Do something!" Snowbell cried. "If Mr. Little finds us watching that, you're gonna be grounded for an eternity, and I'll have a one way ticket to neuter town!"

"Don't you think I know that?!"

Footsteps. Someone was coming down the stairs.

The cat had enough. "Forget this! I'm outta here!" And Snowbell bolted from the couch, and dashed into the next room, to hide under the couch. "I wasn't here! It was all my master, he did it!"

"Oh, NOW I'm your master?" Stuart asked. But the cat was long gone. He was on his own with this one.

With no other choice, he leaped down from the couch and bolted for the television. He tried removing the plug from the socket, but no matter how hard he pulled, the pronged plug was too strong, and it was hidden behind the arm of the side table, and woven around the other device cables. He couldn't unplug it.

Plan B.

Using the power cable as a rope, he climbed all the way up to the screen. But even with his growth spurt, and his arm fully extended, couldn't reach. The cord hung from the middle of the TV, He slipped back down to the middle of the cord, giving himself some slack. Then rocking his body, he turned the power cord into a rope swing. One, two, three!

He reached his arm out and stuck his arm out for the never-used, on-box power button, at the very edge of the flatscreen. Click.At that same moment Stuart lost his grip with his other arm, and plummeted to the carpet. "Ouch…."

It was a hard fall, face first, but by and far not the worst he'd ever had. Even with his body aching, he had enough adrenaline in him to launch himself back on the couch, and turn his phone back on.

Just in time. Mr. Little reached the last step and stopped in the doorway to survey the room. "I don't see it in the living room," he called back up the stairs to his wife. He paused and looked at his oldest son. "Hey, Stuart, You haven't seen that, er, button box of your mother's down here, have you?"

"Mm, no," Stuart replied nonchalauntly, wagging his feet for extra effect. "Try the kitchen?"

"Good idea." Dad was just about to leave, when it occurred to him how different the room looked. "Hey. Did the TV blow out or something?"

"Hm?"

"Well, it's just so dark in here," he said. "Can you really study with just the phone light?"

"I'm just reading," Stuart said. But in truth, reading on the screen for long periods of time did wear on his eyes. He made a big, dramatic yawn. "Anyway, I'm thinking about turning in."

"Sounds like a plan." And he stretched and yawned as he headed to the kitchen. Contagious they were. Even fake.

When he returned from the kitchen, the box was in his hands. "Right in plain view," he 'tisk'ed to himself. "If it was a snake, I'd be twice bitten. Well, goodnight, son."

"Night…" Stuart replied. But he didn't let go of his breath until Dad was back up the stairs and out of sight.

Maybe it was an overreaction. Maybe he wouldn't have thought anything about what was on the screen. But if there was any inkling about what was going on in his head when that happened—

Stuart began doing breathing exercises. In. Out. Stop it. You're fine.

Still, once Dad had gone upstairs, he leaned over the edge of the couch and let out a long sigh, flopping his body over the rounded arm of the couch like a rag doll, arms dangling below. "I gotta give Marg a call..."

Please pick up.

Upstairs in their bedroom, he leaned the phone up against the head of the bunkbed's top bed frame, pulled up the Skype app, and let it ring. He stood there for what seemed like ages, waiting for a response. George was still out of the room, so he had no fear of his brother eavesdropping on their conversation.

Not that he cared all that much. He wanted to talk to her privately, but he'd take anything at this point. If she'd only she'd pick up.

At last, the call dropped. No answer.

Stuart tried three more times before giving up, and pulling down the app. Guess you're not home again.

He pulled up the messenger app and jotted down a text. Are you alright? Call me back ASAP. Before he put the phone back on the home screen. He had so much more to say, but he couldn't put it into words. Not simply a worry for her, but a want for her. This increasing, intense desire to hear her voice.

And seeing the home screen only made it worse. Whereas the lock screen was a picture of stars in space he hadn't bothered to change since getting the phone, the lock screen wallpaper was a picture of himself and Margalo from last summer. It was taken by Dad at their last picnic, with them on the edge of the checkered blanket—Stuart had still had a bite of bread in his mouth when he felt a gentle pinch against his left cheek. Margalo, who had anticipated the photo, planted the most gentle kiss she could on him with the tip of her beak just as Mr. Little picked up Stuart's phone from the blanket, quickly told them to say "Cheese!" and snapped the picture. The result was a devastatingly lovely looking Margalo with her right wing spread, yellow highlighted by the shimmering sunlight, the other wrapped behind Stuart's back. Her boyfriend, by contrast, was stuck awkwardly staring at the phone like a deer in the headlights, cheek protruding with sandwich and all.

Maybe more like a chipmunk, with that embarrassingly big bite.

His surprise wasn't helped by the fact that the kiss had come from nowhere. Stuart had kissed the tip of Margalo's beak a few times before, but only in total privacy. And he'd never been kissed back. It wasn't really a bird's thing to do. And there was an unspoken fear between then that Margalo's beak would be too sharp, maybe even cut his lip.

So when she'd finally kissed him for a change, it took him so aback, it might as well have been a sucker punch to the jaw. A blossom of excitement took hold of his body that he'd never felt before. To know it was possible. To know they could make this work.

To know that she wanted to make it work.

The sky that day crystal blue with no clouds—a shimmering diamond on the sea. a far cry from the cold, wet blanket under gray skies city was reduced to now. That picture was taken only six months ago, but between the flurry of school and work and the trappings of winter, it felt like a different lifetime.

It happened the same way, every year. Everything seemed fine, like the word was their own little bubble, and nothing could penetrate it. And then the air began to change, as currents of warmth from the south began to cease. The days grew shooter, the sun going down before school was out. The nights colder, summer clothes packed away. And then, it was time to say goodbye.

He stood on the roof every time, watching her leave. After the first year, she made herself wait until it was very late, and the rest of the family had gone to bed, so it was just their moment. Just them.

He didn't let himself blink until her tail feathers were just a dark speck against the great, white moon. He didn't want to miss a moment of her. And he didn't want her to see any tears that might have been pushed out by his eyelids closing.

In the present, Stuart started finally changing into his PJs. There was a compact mirror taped to his doll-sized dresser that he used as his vanity. He kicked off his shoes, and stopped to inspect himself after removing his shirt.

On top of getting better at climbing, puberty had given him a more flattering form, leveling out his midsection weight with a wide chest, and longer limbs lined with muscle. If his size and the fact that he was a mouse didn't give away that he wasn't biologically related to the Littles, then his notably different body type sure did.

Stuart didn't care too much for how this added to him standing out from the family, or how it reminded him of his chunkier, baby fat days. Still, he flexed his biceps in the mirror. He wasn't sure what a bird could find attractive in a mouse, but he knew she'd remarked about his strength the day he carried her into the house. Granted, at just twelve years old, it was a struggle.

At least he was even stronger now. And training to stay fit for sports—as well as generally getting around a world so big, and protecting himself—had a boon to it. Even though she'd grown with age as well, he could now pick her up with ease. Heck, he could carry her across Madison Avenue running, if they ever needed to.

Though hopefully their dangers adventures were in the past, he would be lying if he claimed that he didn't spend more than a fair amount of time daydreaming about such things.

Such a heroic scenario was playing out in his head, in fact, when the bedroom door suddenly opened, and a pair of teenagers pushed open the bedroom door. A shirtless Stuart broke from his reverie and spun around. "GEORGE!"

The humans halted in their tracks when they realized they weren't alone. George's mouth fell open "Oh—"

The teen that was with him, a copper skinned girl with long, curly waves hanging over a dark sweater, quickly covered her eyes. "Oh! Sorry, Stuart!"

The shirtless mouse shot daggers at his brother before bending over and snatching his shirt from off of the floor by his bed "Could you have at least knocked first?!"

"I thought you were still downstairs!"

"And I thought you were just having a downstairs visit." Despite his frustration, Stuart's voice was as zen as ever. It was hard to make him legitimately angry, and even harder to make it show.

George turned to the girl who had followed him into their bedroom. "It's okay, Gigi. He's still got his pants on."

"Yeah, thankfully!" added Stuart, as he slipped his day shirt back on over his head. The pajamas would have to wait. He sat down on the edge of his little bed. After cooling down, he spoke to the pair in a calmer voice. "What're you doing over here so late, anyway?"

Gigi uncovered her eyes, noting the suspicion at the end of the question. "Relax, sargento ratón. Nothing like that."

"Really? Because George seemed pretty surprised you two weren't gonna be in here alone."

"Would you shut it? We're doing a project together," George told him, heading for his desk on the other side of the room. "And I had to show her some sketches."

"Annnd, maybe pass a little fatty back and forth," Gigi admitted, giggling. "Just a few hits."

"Wonderful," Stuart replied, trying to push the tension out of his body, but it had his hairs on edge. "Just… crack a window and blow it outside, or something," he said, flopping backwards onto his mattress. "It would be kinda easy for me to get a contact high, and I can't afford to," he said, pointing to the ceiling. "Not right now."

"Man, do you sound stressed," Gigi noted, eyebrows knitted. "Sure you don't need a hit?" She looked at the wall above Stuart's bed, and the collage of university letters carefully taped in rows. Her brown eyes widened. "Holy Go—! Are all those yours?!"

Stuart gazed up at the many papers looming over his head. "Unfortunately… yes."

The jean jacket clad teenager crossed the room and read the papers on the wall above the bunk bed. "You even got a letter from Brown! My uncle studied there!" she smiled. "Oh man! Your parents had to have flipped!"

"Oh yeah. They're real excited," George tossed over his shoulder. He switched on his desk light and began flipping through the pages of his sketchbook. "Couldn't be more proud of 'em."

Stuart frowned as he watched him, his ears dropping low. He hadn't heard George say a word about any of this up to this point, and now that he did, he could hear the resentment in his voice.

Though Gigi heard it too, she was too curious to drop it. "So, which school are you—?"

"Haven't picked," Stuart cut her off shortly. But he felt guilty about it right after. "Sorry. I mean, There's a lot of factors to go over."

The girl's lightly glossed lips curled up in a knowing smile. "Bet Mrs. Little wants you to go local."

Stuart's eyes widened. "How'd you know?"

"Moms are all alike," she shrugged, her loose black locks bouncing as she did so. "You should've seen mama's reaction when my brother got accepted to the U of Oklahoma."

"Wow."

"Si. Full football scholarship. She didn't know whether to hug him or smack him for leaving," Gigi said, clicking her tongue and shaking her head.

Stuart grinned at her. Strange how his brother's girlfriend was easier to talk to than his own brother.

Gigi's gaze lowered to somewhere behind Stuart, and suddenly her eyes widened. "Ooo! Is that her?"

"What?"

"Your phone screen," she pointed upwards. "The little bird that you're with. That's Margalo, right? Your girlfriend?"

Stuart sat up on the bed and turned around, realizing that he hadn't locked his phone. Oops. "Uhhh… yeah. It is."

"She's beautiful," Gigi cooed. "Oh! You two look so cute together!" She then cleared her throat. "I mean, hope that doesn't come off condescending. You know what I mean."

"Thanks," Stuart answered, nodding, before rubbing the back of his neck. "I think so too."

Gigi picked up on his reluctance to right away. "What's the matter?"

"Well, she—"

"The migration thing," George answered for him. "You know." And after picking up a spiral bound sketchbook from atop his desk, he came up to her side and mouthed the word 'bird' to her.

After processing what he meant, she felt disappointed in herself. "Oh. Duh. I'm… sorry."

There he goes, speaking for me again, Stuart thought with annoyance. Then turned to Gigi. "But uh… yeah. Don't worry about it. We're used to a long distance relationship."

Even from her distance, Gigi could see the heartbreak in his face. She wasn't fooled. "I applaud y'all. It can't be easy."

"Sometimes," Stuart admitted. "But as long as you keep up communication, it's all good." And he gave her a smile, even if it was weak. If only she'd answer me…

"Uh... " George cleared his throat, and took Gigi's attention back. "So… this is what I'm thinking." He opened the book to the page bookmarked with one of a dozen sticky notes, and presented it to her. "We make a diorama like this one. Based it off colosseum pictures on google. What do you think?"

Seeing as he was dismissed from the conversation, Stuart began making his way back to his bed. Or that was what he was doing, until he heard Gigi's reaction.

"Damn, Geo," she said, pouring over the open pages. "You drew these? They look real!"

The mouse was just about to sit down on his mattress when his ear twitched. Normally, he respected George's privacy when it came to his sketchbook, even though sharing a room with him, he'd had more than a handful of opportunities to peek at it, and more than enough curiosity to do so.

But now that George had it open for someone else, he couldn't resist. Stuart left his miniature bed and leaned over the footboard of the top bunk that made up his 'room.' At this height and at this angle, he had a perfect view of the page his brother had opened, and what he saw justified the girl's reaction. "George… that's amazing!"

George's head twisted back. After cutting him off about Margalo just a minute ago, he was surprised to hear Stuart still speaking to him.

"T-those look like real architectural sketches! Look, you've even got the measurements down and everything!" Stuart pointed over the railing. "And-and you even got that trademark tiny handwriting! Heh, looks like I wrote it!"

"A mouse would know about tiny handwriting," Gigi added with a grin.

"I haven't seen his sketches since we built models together," Stuart went on. "But he's definitely got better!"

Gigi turned to George. "You make models?"

"I mean… I used to," George corrected, embarrassed. "When I was a kid. Usually we'd just follow a kit, Dad n' me. But sometimes we'd look up how to build something we couldn't find in a store. Usually stuff for Stuart to play with. Drive."

"Like what?"

The middle Little turned to his mouse brother and grimaced. Why did Stuart have to bring this up? "Uh…"

"Oh, come on, George! Show her!" Stuart was practically jumping up and down as he leaned against the railing. "His models were awesome, Gigi. One of the last things he built for me back then was a chariot with a wooden horse—aw, it was so cool!"

"It sounds cool," the girl said, grinning at George.

George couldn't find it in himself to grin back, however.

"Can I see it?"

"Yeah, I think we still have it in the basement," Stuart said. "Hey, you can put that in your diorama!"

"Eh. That's not gonna add much," George said, desperately looking for a way to switch the topic. In one of the most absentminded moves of his young life, he passed the heavy sketchbook into Gigi's hands, so that he could direct his attention to his brother. Surprised, the girl took the precious book, and took the opportunity to thumb through the well-worn, lead-stained, off-white pages."The project's on ancient architecture."

"But it'll still look cool next to the arena," Stuart argued. And then he crossed his arms. "Oh, don't tell me you threw that one out, too."

"So what? It was mine, I could do whatever I want with it." The fourteen year old had recently gone on a spree of getting rid of a few of his models from his childhood. No one has asked him too. Even their mother was fine with them sitting in the basement, since they took up space where most guests couldn't see them. But for whatever reason, the teenager found their clutter to be irritating.

"I could chuck it into the toilet if I wanted!"

"But I had fun with it, too!"

"Who's this?"

Both Stuart and George turned. Gigi had thumbed through the back of the start of the sketchbook, with her hand on top of a well-creased page. All three teens were looking down on a rough, but inarguably flattering pencil sketch of another girl's face and shoulders.

An icy pause consumed the Little brothers' room.

Gigi's gaze shifted to George, with what the human boy could only imagine was a mixture of curiosity, and maybe a hint of disappointment. She had no idea who the mystery sketch girl was, and the drawing hadn't been titled. Prior to a certain date, George never bothered to date or title any of his drawings.

But because George's art wasn't bad, and even from his distance Stuart knew exactly who it was.

"Old friend?" Gigi asked at last.

George hadn't realized how dry his mouth had become until he tried to speak. "Oh. That's… Brooke. We knew her from summer camp."

"She's pretty." And this was said with sincerity.

So much that it made George wanna punch himself. "Yeah. I mean—she was. I thought she was, way back when. You know."

"Yeah." And slowly, Gigi turned the page away from Brooke. And even then, somehow, her wide set, copper brown eyes seemed to haunt them all, piercing even from the other side of the paper.

Though it was quite apparent that her excitement had taken a dip. The air had turned sour, and all three teens could feel it.

"Alright, George, it's after ten. Lights out!"

The air of tension in the room was broken, and a surge of energy passed through George's body. "Oh crap… I thought Dad was asleep."

Gigi gaped open-mouthed at the door for just a moment before reaching into her sweater pocket, and producing a bag with the singular fatty. She passed George the goods. "You got a light, right? Hide it good. I gotta go."

The boy gaped at her through his black, square glasses. Holding the discolored ziplock bag, he spun around as the girl raced for the door. "But, the project—!"

"W-we'll talk about it tomorrow. Study hall. Later, Stuart! I'll see you tomorrow, Geo!"

Father Little opened the door with the question in his mouth, silenced by the surprise of Gigi brushing passed him on her way downstairs. The brothers listened to her checkered Vans pound the wooden staircase as she made her way out of the Little home.

Long after she was out of earshot, Mr. Little turned to the boys with a raised brow. Would the scene look ridiculously suspicious, if not for the fact that both of his sons were in here, instead of one. Still, he crossed his arms over his chest as he studied them. "Sorry. Didn't realize you were having company," he said, his voice faintly accusing.

"She just came to drop off my phone. I left it in Study Hall," George said quickly, reaching into his back pants pocket for his phone.

"Ah," Mr. Little said, as if that explanation absolved all of his suspicion. "Well then. Get some sleep you two. It's a school night. George, I don't want to come back in an hour and find you online again, we clear?"

"Crystal, Commander," George muttered.

Before he shut the door, however, Mr. Little took a sniff of the air. It was incredibly faint, but something was reminding him of the distinct smell of some of those concerts he and his wife frequented. But maybe it was just unearthing the memory of those days.

Once the door closed, Stuart broke the tense silence with a snicker.

George glared at him. "What?"

The mouse pushed his hands to his mouth. "Geo?"

The middle Little shook his head and faced the wall. "I'm so tired of this."

"Tired of what?" Stuart tried to stop. "I didn't mean to laugh, I'm sorry. I just—"

"Why do you always have to do that?"

At last, Stuart's smile fell. "Do what? Look, I didn't mean to embarrass you—"

"But you had to bring up the models?"

"Wait, are you serious?" Stuart wasn't laughing anymore. His brows creased with annoyance. "You're the one who opened your sketchbook up in the first place! How was I supposed to know you had a drawing of Brooke? You never showed it to me!"

"But did you have to tell her to look through to the rest of the sketchbook?"

"I didn't!"

"But she got the idea from you!" He pinched the bridge of his nose beneath his glasses. "Why didn't I just rip those sketches out…"

"C'mon, George, there's no way she could possibly think—I mean, that you're not over her. That sketch was from years ago..." But as Stuart said it, his voice faltered. He remembered the wrinkles on the end of that particular page. How often had George looked back on it since he drew it?

Such a dangerous question seemed to unearth an anger George didn't even realize was brimming inside. "It's not about that!" he fired back.

"But that's why you're embarrassed, right? Because she saw them?"

"Now she's gonna think I'm some … basement dwelling manchild who still plays with toys!"

"She thought your drawings were cool! And you're good at it! George, you could get into a serious art school with these sketches!" insisted Stuart. "I'm talking Cal-Arts, The Institute of Chicago, the Met—"

"Yeah. Right. Those schools want people who are real good," George went on. "Like, crazy good."

"You are crazy good!" Stuart insisted. He felt like yanking his whiskers out. "Why don't you believe me?"

When George didn't answer, Stuart felt like yanking his whiskers out. Here was bonafide proof of his brother's potential, and the only person who couldn't see it was George himself. Even after all these years of trying to build him up.

All the while, those admission letters loomed over Stuart's shoulder. "You know, George I won't be around forever. If you don't start advocating for yourself, before you know it, you're just gonna let your whole life pass you by!"

"See! There you go again!" George fired back. "Could you just stop trying to lecture me for five seconds! Who's supposed to be the big brother, anyway?"

Stuart had a gift for patience, but even now, he had to gape at the human incredulously. "George… really?"

While it's true that George had wanted a little brother when the mouse was brought home. And while it was true that Stuart was technically, by his height, a 'little' brother, there were times when Stuart couldn't shake the feeling that George resented his being older than him. And this was one of those times.

And although he tried to bring attention to this as little as possible, Stuart's encouragement, from everything from soccer to art, must've come off less like an enthusiastic little brother pushing him up, and more like a wise, older brother pulling him upwards.

And it didn't help that Stuart was literally looking down on George for this conversation.

Realizing he'd lost the argument, George grunted and yanked off his glasses. "Whatever. Goodnight."

He hit the switch to his bedside lamp, and the room fell dark. The only aside from this was the high circular window to the bed's right, which let in the glow from the still active city across the park.

"Goodnight," Stuart replied, his voice low and gruff. He took his frustration out on his bed and threw himself onto it belly-first, the wooden box-spring creaking tremendously. He turned into his side, trying to sink as deep into the mattress as possible. He didn't even bother with pajamas. He yanked the blanket over his head and curled up as tightly as he could.

After listening to the noises of the bed creaking as George kicked off his pants and hoodie, the room became silent. Uncomfortably so. His pulse thumped in his ear. He couldn't relax.

Especially when his mind drifted back to Margalo.

In the stillness, Stuart overheard Mom ask Martha a question across the hallway.

"... candles, Martha?"

"But mom! the ritual calls for them…"The mouse pulled the blanket beneath his chin, ear tuned in on the conversation with mild interest. Though the door to Martha's room was closed, like their own, and even his excellent ears could only make sense of some of what was said. After a minute long conversation that even he couldn't decipher between two doors, he heard Martha's bedroom door open, and Mom step outside.

"... bedtime. No butts."

"Ugh. I'll never finish a seance… "

Stuart caught a little more before Martha's door was shut, and he heard Mom's footsteps heading down to the second floor, where hers and dad's bedroom sat.

Sometimes it was surreal to remember Martha was already in the second grade. These past few years had gone by so fast. With the added responsibility of work, increasing homework, extra curriculars, and even a few outside social events in which Stuart got a glimpse of what it was like to have a real social life, high school was a blur. And in less than six months, it would be over.

Nine years. Nine years in the Little house. Adulthood, the next step, was rushing towards him like a runaway train. And beneath his encouraging smile, he felt nearly as confused and uncertain as the day of his welcoming party, almost ten years ago.

Eventually, his thoughts gave way to exhaustion. Stuart fell asleep, still waiting for that precious response to his texts and calls. Aching for that little tooth whistle sound effect he set for the canary's number, a message popping up in front of their picture on his homescreen. A sign, telling him everything was going to be okay.

But by morning, it never came.

A/N: In this chapter, I go a bit into the semi retcon of Stuart's size. I just can't see him reach his full height so early in life, even if he is a mouse. After looking at some test animations for Stuart's character for the movie on youtube (didn't have the DVD growing up, just the VHS copy, so seeing these was totally new to me as I got hyperfixated on this franchise), seems like we have evidence Stuart's size could be increased and he'd still look relatively… okay. IDK if "normal" would be the operative term, but acceptable nevertheless.

When I first drew older Stuart, I imagined him just being stretched out, therefore just having a lankier kind of body. But after rewatching 2 with that shot from the opener where he takes off his pajama top, seems like he's on the path to have wider set shoulders and chest, maybe even being a bit of a chonkier guy. (of course, they were probably going off of his animation from movie 1 when it seems like his body has the chunkiness of a well fed mouse.) I've only got a rough sketch so far, which I used for the cover art here, and it could still use tweaking. When I get a decent sketch for adult Stuart I'm comfortable with, I might upload to dA.

Sometimes nicknames can be cringey, I know. Not sure how I feel about Stuart calling Margalo "Marg" (pronounced 'Marge') but I just hear it so well in Fox's voice, I had to write it that way. He's still going to refer to her as 'Margalo' for the majority of the time, though.

I was also really hesitant to introduce the idea of sex into this, and bump up the rating for the fic entirely. But if I'm being honest with myself, there's a lot of plot points for these characters I want to do that at least allude to sex in some way. And since this is fanfiction, why the hell not?

Last thing to note, but I've said it in the A/Ns on my other stories, but I hate titling chapters, but I hate how the format looks without some sort of title. I think it just looks really lazy. I've been known to compulsively rename chapters and entire stories later on when I think the current titles sound awkward or ill fitting, so I might be doing that in the future.

Anyway, time to let this rip. Hit me up with notes about typos/inconsistencies/questions, I'm all ears. Enjoy!