At the top of the stairs, Emeral took off her shoes and set them at the penultimate step. She shuffled across the carpet and laid claim to the rightmost cushion of the gray couch.
Ket was already tending to the television set. It was an ancient-looking CRT-TV, which Emeral had not genuinely seen until she met her friend—boyfriend. It was horrible quality compared to the HD at her house, but at the same time it was homely. More than a dozen times they both sat upon the striped carpeting looking up at the big glass screen, a controller in Ket's paws as he played a videogame.
He had a Nintendo. It wasn't a Wii, nor a Gamecube, nor an N64. It wasn't even a Super-Nintendo. It was just a Nintendo, with plain little blocky graphics and sometimes really bad colors. He had 4 games: Super Mario Bros., Metroid, Yoshi and—her favorite—Kirby's Adventure. He was pretty good at each of them, and he said he was close to beating Kirby, since he had beaten it already, and so every once in a while he would play it so she could watch. He liked Metroid the most, and she watched him play with as much enthusiasm as with Kirby. But really she watched him more than the game; the look of concentration as he bit his lip, furrowed his brow, and sat up a little straighter, was a facet of his personality which she liked but rarely saw, outside of those moments.
"Need help?" She offered, sliding a little off the couch while Ket huffed as he pushed the stand.
"No, I got it," he said, moving it into its usual spot. He situated the wheels into place and made sure the screen was free of dust.
"Um...Ket?" She asked, and he looked at her with a rhetorical response. "Well...can we maybe move it closer and... sit on the couch?"
He looked at the box for a second. "Well...we can try. I dunno if the cord'll reach..." He went around to the back and pushed it closer to the couch. "How's that?" He asked with a bit of a huff, peeking from behind the set.
"Maybe a little closer?" The response was met with a roll of his eyes; he huffed again, stopped, asked for approval. "...I think that's too close."
He sighed and shook his head.
She hopped off the couch, "You go plug it in, I'll—"
"No I've got it," he grumbled, pulling it back a little.
She sank back down onto the cushions as he uncoiled the plug and went to the wall. The prongs managed to go in just fine, and he repeated the process for the cable outlet. At his word, she turned it on. "It's good," she said quietly.
He plopped down, causing the whole couch to shake, and looked at the screen. "The marathon doesn't start for another fifteen minutes," he pointed at the schedule chart that showed up.
"Sorry," she said, "I'm a little early." She eased against the arm of the couch. "I didn't sleep at all last night," she explained, "and mom had to go the hospital—for work—so she dropped me off a little earlier than I expected." The presence beside her remained silent. "I hope that's not a problem," she added genuinely.
"S'fine," he replied, "Sorry you couldn't sleep. Was it too cold again?"
She shook her head. "No I was just..." Her whiskers twitched, and she moved her hand to rest on his.
Only two days had gone by, but it felt like months. The last time she saw his face, he was asleep and dreaming. She liked to think he dreamed of her. She had spent the night with him, because his mother spent the night out of the house after his father came for a "visit". She felt a rightful sense of pride, for Ket was in a weakened state and in a proverbial dark forest, and with her help he was able to walk through it. And on the other side, they were now closer than ever.
Maybe sleeping beside him was sort of her reward. It wasn't the best sleeping she had ever done; they kept bumping each other and any little movement stirred them. The air was freezing, and the covers kept moving away. But it was the best night she'd ever had, and she wished she could go back in time and relive it—the good parts, that is.
But she wasn't supposed to stay over. Really she had gotten her friend Lyza to pretend like she was over there, so just as it got light enough in the morning she woke up, wrote him a note, and then took a cold walk to her friend's house.
She squeezed. It made his eyes glance at the joining, but other than that there was no response. She pinched her lips together nervously; she felt a simmering beneath his surface. "Are you...mad at me?"
"No," he replied flatly.
"You look like you're mad," she pressed.
"I'm not mad!" Irritation slipped off his tongue. He curled the hand beneath hers, looked down, blinked, and then looked back at the TV.
"What's wrong?" She asked, kneeling on the couch.
"Nothing's wrong," he spoke curtly.
"Did I do something wrong?"
"It's nothing," he said under his breath, and leaned forward to turn the volume up, "Let's just watch TV."
Emeral lowered, placing her hands and chin upon his thigh. She looked up at him with a continuous whimper in her throat.
"Stop it," he muttered, but the whimper only raised a couple decibels. "All right," he said airily, "I'm sorry okay? I really did think your pancakes were great."
She raised back up with a quizzical look. "Huh?"
He returned the look. "Your pancakes. I said they were 'just good' and you got all upset with me."
She looked at him dumbly for a moment, and then shook her head, "No no, I wasn't upset. I was just teasing you that's all."
"Well you sure sounded upset."
"I wasn't, I promise. It's okay if they weren't that great—that was only my third try making pancakes, so why should they be really great?"
"They really were," he repeated earnestly.
"It's okay, Ket, really. They were overcooked and crumbly." She cupped his hand in hers, rubbing it. "I'm sorry. I shouldn'ta teased you like that—I do it too much."
"Huh-uh, it's fine. I just..." he stared at the screen for a moment. "...Nevermind."
She rubbed his hands urgently, "Please tell me."
His chin rose as he lifted his head back. "I just...don't wanna upset you." He bit his lip. "Or gross you out. Sorry I licked the pancake in front of you. That was...dumb."
"Oh please," she said, clapping his shoulder as she sat normally on the couch beside him, "That didn't gross me out I was just kidding—maybe teasing again." She leaned against him; a gunshot sounded from the speakers of the TV. "I talk about blood and guts all the time, a little spit doesn't bother me. Besides," she looked up into his eyes, "I probably get more of it just by kissing you." She ended the sentence with a giggle.
The hint flew way over his head. But, he did return the attention that his hand was receiving at least. Eyes back on the glow-box, like little lightning bugs drawn to the zapper, he watched Wile E. Coyote in another fruitless attempt at catching the Roadrunner. They were making so many remakes of cartoons now, and changing so many things. He was waiting for the day when the Roadrunner would finally be caught, for when the Silly Rabbit would get the Trix, and for when Lucky would finally get enough sense to purchase an alarm system for his charms.
Emeral's stare caught his focus. "Wha?"
She flinched, as if she didn't realize she was staring. "Nothing," she said, and straightened upright, also taking notice of Wile E.—or what notice he gave until he fell into the canyon with a plume of smoke.
"No, what's wrong. Tell me."
She shook her head with a smile. "Don't worry about it, the marathon's starting soon."
"Hey, I told you what bothered me," he said, a little bit snappy.
She receded with a whimper, "Are you still mad?"
"No," he replied with the opposite tone, placing his hands over hers as gently as he could, "I-I didn't mean to sound mad, I just wanted to be sincere..." His ears melded with his scalp for the second time. "This is...harder than I thought..." He sighed and half-closed his eyes, swallowing dryly.
"What's hard?" She asked softly.
"Just..." His hands lifted. "I can't explain it."
"Try," she urged.
"No, you're right," he leaned forward to turn up the volume, "Let's just—"
With her foot—in its sock—Emeral used her big toe to push the large, fat button that made the TV flicker and shut off with a white line. The image of Wile E. on a gigantic rocket burned onto the screen for just a moment, and then faded over the quarter-minute that passed.
Ket watched the reflection of the white tigress, rendered ashen and gray and a little distorted. But he could see a stare that would challenge Madusa's, and probably win.
"New rule," she said. "What's First Rule?"
"First Rule is relax," he replied, and then after the moment's pause, he realized she was telling him to obey it. He did, and rested back into the cushion of the couch. Their eyes met.
"Do you know what Second Rule is?"
His head shook.
"Neither do I, but I'm making one, and we're going to follow it, kay?"
His chin went up and down twice.
"Second Rule is Talking. From now on, no more saying 'nevermind' or 'nothing'—or anything like that. If we start saying something, we finish saying it, and the other listens. If there's a problem, we help each other. Straight stripes?"
He nodded again, then affirmed with his voice.
"Good. Now...what were you going to say; what's hard?—Try to tell me."
Ket was about to explain, but he was beckoned by his mother. "What mom?" He shouted back down the stairs.
"Could you come down and help me for a bit?"
"I have to entertain Emmy!" He replied.
Emeral couldn't help the opportunity. "He's not entertaining anything; he's being bore-ring!"
"Quit boring your friend and get your tukus down here!"
"Thanks a lot," he grumbled sarcastically.
"Go help your momma, I'll be here when you get back."
With an exasperated sigh, Ket lurched off the couch and bounded down the stairs, leaping over the last few of each flight. Although he wasn't eager to do work, he was eager to postpone the explanation of how he felt—he didn't quite understand it himself. In the kitchen, his mom was sweeping all manner of dust, lint, and crumb into a large garbage bin.
"Whaddaya want me ta do?" The tiger cub asked with a tired droll.
"You should've brought Emmy down, you could have shown off your muscles," she said, pronouncing the 'c'. "See those bags?" She pointed to five brown paper bags, crowded together around the door, "They need to go out to the curb. I'm going to recycle all the newspapers in 'em later."
He went over to the bag. They were full of newspapers and fliers and all sorts of other scraps. He crouched down just a little so that he could hug one of the bags, and tried to lift. He let out a grunt that sounded much like Hrrrrrg! before he gave up.
"The great Arkethius," his mom teased, leaning on the broom and watching him, "Defeated by paper? What about all those exercises you do?"
"Haven't done 'em in a while," he said, crouching a little lower and embracing the bag more tightly. He grunted, and the bag lifted off the ground.
"Make sure to hold the bottom or they'll all fall out," she warned as she opened the door for him.
"You hold the bottom!" He retorted with a strained voice as he troll-stepped out the door. He carried the bag—or rather the bag carried him—over the lawn as quickly as he could. Twice it almost fell out of his grasp and he had to stop, lean backward to keep it from tipping over, and then start the walk again. It was only when he was about to take a dive off the curb that he realized he wasn't watching where he was going. With an exhalation of relief, he set the bag down on the grass and dusted off his shirt, which had accumulated a number of little brown fuzzies.
The walk back to the house was not pleasant when he thought about how he had to make four more trips just like that one. But when he opened the door, he counted five bags once again. He looked at his mom. "Wha—bu—"
"Oh don't be such a wimp," she teased, "I lightened the loads of the other bags by putting some of each in that one."
He rolled his eyes, quietly moving to the next bag. He hugged and hefted, overestimating the effort needed and almost fell onto his rear. Once again, his mom got the door for him. The routine was repeated four more times. Each time he reentered the house, he half expected to find the bags reappearing inside and he would have to carry them out all over again; condemned to a Sisyphean life.
But thankfully the bags did not roll back down the hill, and as he placed the last one upon the lawn he checked them all to make sure they would stand still for a while and took in some of the cold air. He tasted a fire; the crisp flavor of freshly burning wood and white smoke opened up his nostrils and swirled in his chest. It was a nice smell, and complemented hard work.
"'Zat it?" He asked as he shut the front door.
"So far, thank you." Her son nodded and went toward the stairs, "I'll try not to call you again if I can help it."
With each step, gravity pressed more and more upon him, until when he reached the top he felt as though he was actually deep under water. He drifted toward the couch, the journey more akin to a graceful fall, abruptly ending with him landing upon the cushion and sliding down a great deal so that his shoulders and back were where his rear should be.
"What happened to you?"
"Carried heavy bags outside," he exhaled.
"Aww," she cooed, and rubbed his scalp, "Poor baby."
He gave her a blazing stare.
"Okay okay," she smiled, and repeated in the same sweet voice, "Poor Mr. Man." The stare was, if anything, more ablaze than before. "The marathon started—you didn't miss much," she said and pointed at the TV as he sat properly upon the couch. A commercial was playing.
"What's on?"
"The Jetsons," she replied. "I don't really like them. Is it okay if we don't watch that one?"
He rolled his eyes, "You just want me to tell you," he said, cutting to the meat.
"...Actually, you don't need to." She received an analytical look.
"I have to, though. Second Rule."
She shook her head, "Second Rule is kind of...bendable. Besides, I thought about it while you were doing Mr. Manly work and... I think I know what you mean." She smiled warmly as his pupils relaxed. "I mean, it's different right—cuz we're in love?" she whispered.
He nodded, and held her hand.
"I mean it's really exciting and I'm happy, but I'm also really nervous."
"We both are," he said.
She blushed. "Can I kiss you?"
"Sure," he said, with such little delay it surprised them both."
"I mean...on the lips?"
"Yes," he said, a little more moderately, "Why're you asking?"
"I dunno, I just...wanted to make sure it was okay with you."
"S'ok with me. Any time."
Time hung in the air for a moment as, despite being given explicit and unlimited permission, Emeral did not move closer but merely reddened further into a raspberry. Deciding to take the matter into his own hands, Ket cupped her chin, leaned inward, and closed his eyes.
