For Solomon, his parents' house is a place of both punishment and pleasure. His decision to spend all weekend there was not a casual one. But he was on the verge of a breakdown, so what better place than to recover than that hellish house, where no one cared enough to pry?
That debate marked the first time in years since Solomon truly felt that everything was falling apart. Truly, in the soul, in the head, in the back of the throat, in the heart, in the stomach, the type of panic where one feels like they're stuck on an endlessly free-falling elevator. Truly, he was falling at terminal velocity.
Why on earth did he stay silent? Why on earth did he allow things to grow into the giant nightmare it's become? He saw the train coming straight towards him from miles away, and didn't bother to step out of the tracks.
Of course, it was for her. Isn't it always? He trusted her; perhaps not in her idea itself but her abilities to pull it off. She had surprised him many times in the past, so yes, why shouldn't he have?
But her plan was too ambitious, and her plan failed. It was an utter betrayal.
She insisted so. Why did she insist if she wasn't absolutely sure her plan would have worked? It was completely unlike her, the actions of a stranger. That sloppiness, that hastiness, that gamble, that twinkle of pride in her eyes when she 'carnivore'. Each a betrayal greater than the last.
Solomon's chest stung with a vile sensation he perhaps had felt before in another life. The pain of resentment. All weekend long, his body had been poisoned with the wretched feeling of resentment towards her. Normally, this wouldn't bother him in the slightest; he resented many people in this world, himself included. But to resent someone he deeply cares about, someone he so deeply adores and idolizes… it felt like fifteen arrows lodged in his back.
However, an even worse sensation plagued him that weekend as well: a sick gratitude towards his parents. Even if he visited them every Sunday, he held on to the notion that he was different from them, and the superiority that such a notion granted. He loathed his visits, his meals, and his parents, always ensuring to leave the second his plate was cleaned. Yet this time, there was a disturbing comfort in his childhood home, in the sterilized conversations with his father, and in those agonizingly ambrosian foods. It settled his heartbreak, his sorrow, his anger back into familiar and reliving apathy.
Come Monday, he almost feels sad about returning to the academy. But, he must, if only because his father would never allow tardiness or absence. The senior caracal even drives him to school himself
"Even if we don't see much of each other," The greying cat says while driving up the academy's tree-lined hill. "Your mother and I enjoy your presence in the house. It is reassuring. I don't know what caused this sudden change of heart in you, but I hope it lasts."
Solomon's gaze shifts from observing the scenery outside to face his father.
Morbid. That's the words that springs into his head. How a father can love a son he is so violently disinterested in. It is truly morbid. The caracal knows that from birth, he'd been nothing more than a toy. A decorative piece to complete the image of success his father cultivated and passed down to his next of kin. Should Solomon deviate from any notion of what his father's son should be, such affection would vanish in an instant. Yet, now, why can he feel the sincerity in his father's tone?
A parent's love is supposed to be unconditional. Any less, and they are a failure of a guardian. Solomon suddenly feels very small, for he's been poisoned with conditional love, a love that tickles and stings the same as the correct one, but one that is as fleeting as a mirage.
Another wave of despair manifests within his heart, now with an opposite solution. He wants to see Hafsa.
Fragile, slipping, intangible. So his weekend had been for naught after all. All is a blur of sensations, simultaneously dull and heightened, until he reaches the structure he recognized as hers. Hers is the door with three numbers, which one they are, he forgets, but he knows that behind that board of wood and plastic is Hafsa. Hafsa who he loves so dearly.
He paws at the door for even it deserves to be treated gently. A second passes and it is one too many, so he tries again, and however many times he needs to until Hafsa's face appears. Her fur is tousled and her eyes are half-lidded. However, her grogginess vanishes the instant she sees him.
"S-Solomon…!" Her panicking hands rush to tidy up her fur and straighten out her oversized pajama shirt. "Wh-what are you doing here, the sun's not even up yet—"
Solomon envelops her into a tight embrace. He presses himself against her, as much as he can, as if he would float away from the world if he did not hold on.
Words fail Hafsa. Her quivering chin rests against his shoulder, now useless, and her arms are trapped against their chests. Solomon's are very free, and they run up and down the baggy fabric on her back. He leans even closer, nuzzling his face beneath the serval's jaw. She can hear the friction of their fur rubbing against each other, the rustling of fabric, the deep sighs of relief that warm her neck.
"S-Sol…" She dares to whisper.
Her voice enraptures him further, and his nestling transforms into kisses. Helplessly, she snakes her arms out from their embrace and around his neck, lacing her fingers in his fur. His kisses trail upwards until his lips finally meet hers.
Eventually, oxygen becomes an issue. With a gasp, they both pull away, but the caracal leans in again after a few hasty breaths. However, Hafsa turns away from this second invitation, much to her boyfriend's dejection. He settles for moving his hands up her torso, eventually cupping her face and stroking her soft, wild fur.
Despite herself, she leans into his touch. "Where… where were you?"
"I missed you. I'm sorry."
"Is it the same place you go every Sunday?"
Solomon's thumbs freeze for a moment.
"Do you think I'm cheating on you?"
"No. I know you wouldn't. So it has to be something worse."
Her wit. That is the Hafsa he knows. Solomon leans in, resting his forehead on hers.
"I was childish. I needed somewhere to cool off, so I stayed with my parents. I'm sorry I didn't tell you."
"You could have cooled off with me."
"You know I couldn't have."
"…So that's where you go every week?"
"Yes. I visit them out of obligation. It's miserable."
"I could come with you. It would make it less miserable, wouldn't it?"
Solomon kisses her again, less passionate than before but just as warm. When he pulls away, his lips are smiling.
"I'm afraid I have to go alone."
Hafsa's eyes are still clouded with worry, but she doesn't object. Instead, she closes them, and buries her face in the caracal's chest. Solomon gives a low chuckle while trying to adjust his muzzle in between her long ears.
"I was lonely." Her voice is quiet and muffled.
"I know. I'm sorry. I won't leave like that again."
"Good." With a final huff, she lifts her head up to face him once more, now a lot more tranquil than before. "After today's assembly, everything will go to hell."
"Perhaps for a while. But I promise…" He reaches for her hand, guiding it to his lips for one final kiss. "I will fix everything. I promise."
Hafsa smiles. "We'll fix it."
Molly frowns. "You'll be fixing my sleep schedule."
The two taller cats jump at her audience emergence form the darkness.
"You guys can't have sex here, I'm trying to sleep. Go find a bush or something."
Hafsa flares up. "Molly!"
Solomon bends down to offer an apologetic look. "Forgive me for the disturbance. I'll be taking my leave now."
The Pallas cat mutters something unintelligible and tromps back inside the dormitory.
"As for you…" The male grazes a hand across Hafsa's cheek. "I'll see you later."
"M'kay." She hums, still dazed.
Soon, she's back atop the bunk bed, listening to Molly's snores. Her alarm will go off in an hour, but it will be futile. There's no way she can fall asleep again.
And that's zero bottles of beers on the wall.
Toma sighs. He'd played '99 bottles of beer on the wall' in his head God knows how many times now.
Despite the agonizing amount of pent-up power surging within him, he couldn't manage to get up from his bed. It seems all of his energy had gotten trapped inside of his brain, melting his grey matter into a jumbled up mush.
He hadn't gone to class for a week. At least he thinks so; he'd been trapped inside of his dorm room for days now, too scared to leave and confront the ravenous mob of herbivores who want his head. Just imagining the stares he'd get made his body turn into lead, further sinking into his bedsheets long overdue for a wash.
The panther manages to turn his head to the side and observe his alarm clock. 3:13 PM. Too early for another nap, not that he was sleepy. He squints to observe the smaller numbers on the bottom of the clock.
April 7th. His birthday had been three days ago. He must have been playing '99 bottles of beer of the wall' all day then too.
Should he play again?
It's not like he's going anywhere.
"Ninety nine bottles of beer on the wall…" He croaks in monotone. "Ninety nine bottles of beer…"
This sucks. Even juvie was better than this.
"Take one down…"
Who even came up with this stupid game?
"Pass it around…"
I should just leave. Why am I even here?
"Ninety eight bottles of beer on the wall."
Everyone else must still be in class.
"Ninety eight bottles of beer on the wall."
I bet they're having fun.
"Ninety eight bottles of beer."
Are they talking about me?
"Take one down…"
About the debate?
"Pass it around…"
About how I tried to kill my mom?
"Ninety seven bottles of beer on the wall."
Not that I did.
"Ninety seven bottles of beer on the wall."
I hate the sevens. They sound so awkward.
"Ninety seven bottles of beer."
There's an extra syllable. It doesn't sound right.
"Take one down…"
What kind of jackass made this game?
"Pass it around…"
Maybe it was an actual jackass.
"Ninety six bottles of beer on the—"
A sudden knock at his door cuts his game short. The sudden noise startles the panther and he fumbles off of his bed, landing nose-first on the floor. His yellow eyes dart back to the entrance. Since his lights are off, he can see the halo from the hallway peeking in from under the door, with two foot-sized shadows motionless near the center.
Toma gulps. So they've finally come for him. He glances at the window and considers jumping out even though he's on the third floor. He might break a femur, but it's either that or being lynched.
The shadow knocks once more, louder this time.
Fearing any movement might give away his presence, Toma tries his best to remain completely immobile while simultaneously trying to control his steadily increasing heartbeat.
"Toma, just open the door. It's me."
He recognizes that voice. Slowly, he slithers off of his bed and approaches the door. With the door chain still locked, he opens the tiniest crack in order to confirm the voice's source.
Sure enough, it's Solomon.
The shorter feline stares into his eyes with intensity. Though the panther can only see about a sixth of his expression, it's clear he's still upset about the debate.
"Wh-what are you doing here?" Toma asks.
"Let me inside, quickly."
"Wh-why…?"
"Just do it."
Solomon's waspish tone is enough to intimidate Toma, so the latter obliges. In a flash, he shuts the door, slides the door chain open, and reopens to let the caracal inside. Once the pointed-eared cat is safely concealed within the panther's murky room, they wordlessly stare at each other for a moment.
Toma grows impatient. "Shouldn't you be in class or something?"
"I excused myself. This is the only time when the dormitories are empty. I couldn't risk others seeing me approach you."
Such warm words. The panther quirks a brow up, unimpressed.
Solomon continues. "I see you've been keeping yourself scarce."
"Yeah, well. What else can I do?"
"It's the smart thing to do. You've become public enemy number one out there."
"Thanks for cheering me up."
"I—" Solomon snaps, but catches himself. With a sharp breath, he lowers his ears in apology, and releases a strained exhale. "Forgive me. The whole state of affairs has left me… unlike myself. I've been utterly lacking in composure these days."
"Well, I don't blame you."
"In truth, I partly blame you." The caracal paces around Toma in circles. "It's unreasonable, I know, but I was against the whole idea from the start. You should have told us your circumstances beforehand so we could've planned around it."
The panther lets out a halfhearted chuckle. "Planned around it how?"
"Anything to avoid precisely what happened." The rust-colored feline retaliates. "Because of that incident, the academy is closer than ever to a full on intertrophic riot. And the student council's reputation is in shambles."
Toma cuts off Solomon's path, imposing his large frame against his upperclassman's slender one. "I just did what you guys told me."
Solomon gazes up at him, unfazed. "Yes… I came to that conclusion as well. So I've been thinking of ways to rectify this."
The panther tilts his head. "How's that?"
"It's nearly impossible. But it's the only out I can think of." The caracal's voice rasps with uncertainty. "We must convince the academy of your innocence."
"…Huh?"
"If you truly did not commit the crime you were arrested for, then we must bring that truth to light. That is the only way we would be forgiven, and the only way to stop the anti-carnivore movement."
Toma scratches his already unkempt fur. "Uh… That's kind of surprising."
"How so?"
"I guess I expected something… not as stupid."
Solomon's tail bristles. "I'm aware it is near impossible to do so. But it's the only option I can see. Do you have any better ideas?"
"I drop out and go to an actual prison."
"So you don't." His upperclassman sniffs. "Very well, we're proceeding with my plan. Not that I've formulated any steps just yet."
Toma skulks to his bed, flopping on it with a 'whump' of defeat. "Get real. If I couldn't convince a jury, I'm sure as hell not gonna convince any of those guys. Besides, you're just trying to save your own skin."
Solomon mutters something. Annoyed by his unintelligible tone, Toma flips over to stare down the smaller feline. "What?"
"I said," The caracal growls, his voice a deadly serious motor. "Of fucking course I'm trying to save my own skin."
The panther's scowl is instantly replaced by a look of nervous surprise.
"Everything that the student council has sacrificed for their success… years and years of toil to accrue the reputation, the future, we have… I won't let it die. Not now. Not ever."
His words oozed out of his mouth, sizzling to the floor like venom and souring the air. He could pass for a viper in this state.
"Like it or not, you're involved in this mess now." Solomon continues, each syllable piercing Toma's chest. "I will make sure you're proven innocent, so you will do as I say. Understood?"
"…Understood."
AN: Thank you for reading! Yes, another long pause between chapter uploads. Between real life issues and several structural changes, this took some time to plan out. On the plus side, I have a small backlog of other chapters, so expect another update very soon. It's been a while since I've written something melodramatic so it was a welcome change of pace. Listening to emotional music while writing does wonders. Solomon is a tricky character so I need that boost.
Take it easy and stay safe.