Chapter Text
Munkustrap
Mistoffelees comes to the junkyard hand-in-hand with a beautiful white queen who is clearly dying.
She has a gaunt face and a sluggish gaze. Her fur, which was likely once lush and thick, settles in off-white clumps on her head and shoulders. She breathes like a cat thrice her age, her paws drag on the concrete ground, and her shoulders curl in on themselves with each shuddering breath she takes.
Her eyes are dull. She knows where she is headed.
Of course, they take her in immediately.
The two kittens she’d managed to drag along with her on the lengthy trek to the junkyard are Bustopher’s niece and nephew. She explains their origins between wheezing breaths, voice pitched high with unnecessary urgency. The children of Bustopher’s long-since-past brother. Full siblings, two separate litters. Victoria the white cat and Mistoffelees the magical tuxedo.
She tells them that Bustopher had guaranteed the duo a free kittenhood in the junkyard, that he’d given her his word, and Munkustrap cuts off her panicked spiraling to assure her the validity of that offer. One that would be offered to any kitten, but of course to Bustopher’s blood, and –despite her own reservations– of course to a young magical cat.
Jelly looks her over, but of course there’s nothing to be done. Of course there’s little time left.
“Do you want the kittens with you?” Jelly asks the queen.
“No.” The queen –Viviette, she’d introduced herself as– takes a slow, heaving breath. “I wouldn’t want to frighten them.”
Standing there in that quiet den –barely grown himself, listening to the slow creak of a dying cat struggling for breath, and feeling entirely out of his depth– Munk finds he needs to ask. “What do you want for them?”
Viviette has an immediate answer. “To play,” she explains with a near smile. “To dance. To laugh. To be fed, and taught, and most importantly loved. Thoroughly.” With a wheeze, she hunches in on herself, a palm pressed to the ground. “Is… is that–?”
“We can do that, dear,” Jelly assures her, wrapping an arm over her shoulder. “We can do that. Rest easy.”
She is not Munkustrap’s responsibility; Jelly takes care of the sick cats. So after that first conversation he is left only with two more kittens placed into his care than he’d had the night prior, and little clue what to do with them.
Mistoffelees and Victoria. A tuxedo and a white cat. Both fully weaned and both deathly shy. Deathly. The first three nights they spend in the Yard, they sit curled up in the back corner of the kitten’s den and stare at any cat that comes near them with eyes the size of dinnerplates. Neither of them speak. Munkustrap has to admit: the years he’s spent looking after Tugger have bestowed him with a diverse array of experiences in maintaining kittens. He likes to think he’s good at it, for his age. But combating shyness was certainly not one of those impromptu lessons.
“Leave them be,” Dewey, the eldest member of the tribe, suggests to Munk. “New place, new cats, no mother. It’s hard. They’ll figure themselves out.”
~
The little ones get to visit their mother on the third sunrise of their stay at the Yard. Whatever she’d said to them –or perhaps whatever Jelly said to her about their previous behavior– has them out in the clearing by moonrise. Tugger, Alonzo, and a couple of the other visiting kittens are off with Jenny for dance lessons, so Munk’s free to watch the duo (without having to worry about who Tugger is harassing at any given moment, that is). He watches from afar of course; occasionally an adult cat will pass by the two kittens and coo at or try to speak to them, which inevitably earns nothing but wide-eyed stares each time.
“I don’t know what to do with them,” Munk admits to Adelia, a gray queen who’d been a kitten in the Yard alongside him. “They stare at everything like they’re afraid it’s going to bite them.” He scratches his arm. “Their mother asked us to love them, and I’m not sure–”
“Everlasting, Munk, you worry too much.” Adelia shifts the basket on her hip. Someone found a platter of cheese cubes earlier tonight, and she’d volunteered to hand them out. She also stopped doing that to listen to Munk natter, which he’s starting to feel bad about. “They’ll warm up. I’m sure their mother was the only cat they knew before this; now they can’t see her and they’re surrounded by strangers.”
“It took Tugger less than ten seconds to start talking to random cats when Deuteronomy brought him here the first time.”
“Tugger’s rotted your brain, Munk. He is so far from the average kitten. So far. Come on, you help with the kitten theatre, you know this.”
“These ones are younger,” Munk retorts. “And their mother is dying. I want–”
“Kittens are easy to love, Munk. Not loving them is harder. Only you could overthink loving a kitten.” She clicks her tongue at him, then takes a cube from her basket. “Here. Rip that in half.”
He takes the offered cheese hunk and tears it into two fist-sized pieces, staring at his friend with curiosity once the task is complete.
She nods at the two huddled kittens. “Now go give those to them.”
“Augustus fed them this morning,” Munk replies dumbly.
“It’s a treat, Munk, not a meal. Now go.” She kicks him in the back of the calf and moves onwards, basket on her hip. Munk watches her go, then sighs and crosses over to the two kittens. When he approaches, the pair huddle closer together.
Bustopher told me that Deuteronomy would look after them.
Deuteronomy is old. I’m his son and heir. I’ll be watching them in his stead, like I do my brother. Don’t worry, I’ll take care of them.
He’s sure Viviette told the kittens whose custody they’ve been placed in. But they still look at him like they do all the other random cats in the clearing; like he has his claws out and teeth bared.
Munk settles himself down on the cold concrete before the pair, putting something he’s reasonably certain looks like a smile on his face. “Hi. Are you two hungry?”
They glance at each other. Mistoffelees, small enough on his own, makes tiny fluffy Victoria look like a doll. It’s little Victoria who turns back to Munk first, head tilted to peer down at the two cubes. After seemingly measuring the snack up, she lifts her gaze up to Munk’s and nods.
“Okay, here.” Munk hands her the smaller chunk, which she leans forward to take with both paws. “Do you want one, Mistoffelees?”
In response, little Mistoffelees stares at Munk for so long that he starts to wonder if the kitten even understood the question, before he finally nods once. Unlike his sister though, Mistoffelees doesn’t reach out and simply crawls over right into Munk’s lap; he takes the cheese cube straight from his paw and plunks his little cheek against Munk’s sternum.
Munk stills in surprise, only shifting when Victoria follows her older brother’s lead and crawls up to join him atop Munk’s other crossed leg. Munk lifts both of his paws once they settle, and leaves them hovering in the air for several seconds after it occurs to him that he has no clue what he wants to do with them. He settles eventually for placing both paws palm-first onto the concrete on his either side while the kittens munch away.
He’s… touched. They’re so small and so helpless, and like Adelia said: their mother has been abruptly separated from them and they’re surrounded by strangers. It’s a big junkyard, and an even larger city, and to a small kitten it all must seem a thousand times bigger. But despite that, here they are, placing the entirety of their tiny little trusts into a cat they’ve spent all of an hour with at most.
It’s… something.
Of course this isn’t the first time Munkustrap has had a kitten new to the junkyard placed under his care. As he’d told their mother, Deuteronomy is too old for kitten wrangling, and has plenty of other obligations aside. There was a time when watching Tugger and Alonzo was Munk’s only job in this large junkyard. There was a time he longed for more responsibility, withering in the shadow of his older brother. But Macavity… is gone now. And in his absence Munkustrap’s shoulders had been bestowed with a weight that he’d never thought he’d gain the privilege to bear.
Regardless, Munk has had kittens abruptly placed in his care before. But there’s only so much the past can do to prepare a cat, Munk supposes. He certainly hadn’t been prepared for Tugger when he first came to the junkyard. His brother had been a handful even for that first meeting, but Tugger has the patterns of his aging father’s fur on the slope of his round little face, and he’d grinned so widely the first time he’d squeaked ‘Munk!’ that Munk is rather convinced Tugger is impossible to not love, at least a little. Like the Everlasting Cat knew his personality would be a trial for anyone who cared about the little scamp, and so They made him as lovable as possible to make up for it.
But these kittens are not Tugger. They haven’t spoken a word to him, nor do they hold an especially strong resemblance to anyone he knows, beyond their stranger of a mother Munk spoke to once… and some coloring similarities with Bustopher, he supposes. Despite that, he melts a little watching them pick at their treats, cuddled up close when no one else had earned enough trust to be even approached.
Adelia was right. He was overthinking it.
Passingly, he makes a mental note to go visit their mother sometime tonight. He wants to assure her, before she goes, that he can do what she’d asked of him.
~
Tugger doesn’t sleep in the kitten’s den, and he doesn’t listen to a thing any adult around him says unless it starts with ‘damn it, Tugger’, so he apparently doesn’t find out that there are new kittens in the junkyard for those first few nights. He ends up learning the news by virtue of getting in a fight with Alonzo, which Munk swears is how half of his conversations start as of late.
Munk is in the clearing when Alonzo pops up; he’d decided to take advantage of a slow night to wind up some of the fairy lights for storage. With Macavity not here to power them with his magic, there isn’t much reason to leave them up (besides letting the bad memories hang above everyone’s heads) so Munk’s been slowly putting them all away the last few weeks.
“Hi, Munk,” the spotted kitten greets him, crawling around Munk’s side and popping to his feet.
The kittens all have permission to go between the clearing and the kittens’ den as long as they’ve been well behaved, since it’s not a far distance and the little ones should hardly need an approval to go take a nap. So Alonzo comes and goes whenever he pleases, and it seems he’s decided to stop by.
“Alonzo,” Munk responds with affection. The boy has a lot of personality in a similar way to Tugger (which is probably why they don’t get along) but unlike Tugger, he’s always looking to help Munk with something or another.
“Do you need help?” Alonzo predictably asks.
Munk winds the lights into another loop with a smile. “You can play if you want, Alonzo.”
At this, Alonzo sits beside him. “I want to help.”
“I want to help,” comes a mocking echo from the very corner of Munk’s peripheral vision; the spot Tugger often goes when Munk tells him to play ‘anywhere I can see you’.
Alonzo’s ears flatten before he leans back to look at Tugger. Munk follows his gaze, frowning at his little brother very pointedly staring at the scrap of cardboard he’s been testing his claws on, as if he pretends hard enough to be focused enough on it, no one will know who said that.
“Tugger,” Munk chides.
“I don’t mind, Munk,” Alonzo replies loftily, leaning forward again. “He’s just a baby, after all.”
Alonzo is, frankly, only a little older than Tugger. But that small difference in age is a very large sore spot between them. “At least I’m not splotchy,” Tugger replies.
“I’m not splotchy,” Alonzo snaps back.
“Boys–”
“Why don’t you go hang out with the dandelions, Tugger? You blend right in with them,” Alonzo continues, gesturing at Tugger’s admittedly wild poofiness. Munk has always been lost on who taught these two to be so mean. It wasn’t him. “Or maybe go nap with the other babies in the kittens’ den.”
Tugger frowns at this, disregarding the initial insult as he has a tendency to do. The age bit is one of the few to get to him, especially since he’s the youngest full-time kitten at the Yard right now. Or at least he was. “Other kittens? Are the weirdo twins here again?”
“I told you not to call them that,” Munk scolds.
The psychic twins don’t spend much time in the junkyard, but every time they do Tugger treats it like a personal insult. Though he has a feeling that even if Tugger were polite about it, the two little ones would know he dislikes them regardless. They’re disturbingly cognizant. But they’re also oddly self-sufficient for kittens their age, and Munk couldn’t keep them here full-time if he tried.
Which he has.
“But no. There’s a new set of kittens that arrived a couple nights ago. Their mother is ill.”
“Oh,” Tugger says, clearly disappointed. “So baby-babies.”
“One of them just weaned a few months ago, but the other one is nearly your age, and a magical cat too.”
“Really?” Tugger straightens right up, canines bright in the moonlight. “Can I meet him? Or her? Or him?”
“Him,” Munk confirms. “But he won’t want to play with you, Tugger; he’s shy.”
“Well, of course you think that.” Tugger sets his cardboard down. “You’re boring.”
“Tugger, wait–” Munk starts when Tugger just starts marching off towards the kittens’ den. He scrambles to his feet, calling a quick, “Alonzo, just one second,” over his shoulder before hurrying after his little brother.
Tugger doesn’t wait up (as he’s never once done in his short little life) and scampers on all fours down the path that leads specifically to the kittens’ den. Several elders have informed Munk that, based off the size of Tugger’s paws compared to the rest of him, his little brother is going to be, quote, ‘huge’ one day. But even as small as he is right now Munk can barely keep up with him, and only just manages to snatch the little guy off his paws in the middle of the kittens’ den clearing, only a few paces away from the broken-desk den where the two little ones are assuredly resting.
“Muuunk,” Tugger complains, hanging off of Munk’s arm.
“They’re probably still asleep, Tugger,” Munk tells the little rascal.
“Well, if they are, then we’ll be quiet, and come back later,” Tugger responds, as if Munk is the dullest cat in London.
“Are you capable of being quiet?”
“Yeessssss.”
Munk puts him back on his feet. “Can you show me?”
“…For how long?” Tugger asks, and Munk sighs at him immediately failing the given test.
“Longer than zero seconds, Tugger.”
“This is dumb. I want to see.”
“Only for a second,” Munk warns, and Tugger nods rapidly before turning and marching off towards the broken-desk den again. Munk sighs and follows after.
The two little ones are so small and tucked so tightly into a corner that the den looks empty at a first glance. Little Mistoffelees blends into the shadows, and Victoria is so tiny that she could easily be mistaken for a wayward ball of yarn or poofy dust bunny. But Munk knew they’d be here, so he has no trouble spotting them even curled up. He also knew they’d be asleep, so he’s not surprised that neither kitten twitches so much of an ear at their arrival, still and silent and breathing evenly.
Intent on leading Tugger back the way they came now that he’s gotten his glimpse, Munk puts a hand on his brother’s little shoulder. But their shadows crossing over the entrance must wake Mistoffelees, curled up to face them as he is. The little tuxedo cat raises his head before Munk can hustle Tugger away, pushing up on his elbow to regard them with distrustful eyes and hunched shoulders.
“Hi!” Tugger says brightly. “I’m Tugger, what’s your name?”
Mistoffelees only stares at them for another moment before blinking and lowering his head once again, settling back down beside his sister to return to sleep.
Munk can feel Tugger recoil with surprise under his hand. As much as he doesn’t get along with most of the older kittens, as the youngest son of Deuteronomy Tugger is not a cat often ignored. Munk has to physically grab him around the middle when the little scamp starts off like he’s going to crawl within the den and shake some attention out of Mistoffelees himself.
“Munk–!” Tugger starts to complain, but Munk just plasters a hand over his mouth and hauls him off so he can’t disturb the little ones anymore. Idly, he hopes that Tugger grows out of all this behavior before he gets much bigger, because Munk’s not going to be able to carry him off when he’s being annoying forever.
~
Munk wouldn’t wish kitten-sitting Tugger on his worst enemy, but Mistoffelees and Victoria scarcely move, so Munk isn’t too reluctant to foist them upon Jenny the next morning.
Most kittens are fairly self-sufficient by Tugger’s age (at least the ones that aren’t complete terrors) so in most cases when Munk has errands to run out in the city, he brings Tugger along and allows Alonzo (and all the temporary kittens visiting the yard) their independence back at the clearing. Perhaps when little Victoria and Mistoffelees have adjusted a bit to the junkyard he’ll be able to do the same for them, but for now he’d like a set of eyes on the pair, and luckily Jenny seems happy to watch them for a few hours.
The little ones are his responsibility and all, but he has things that need doing– notably checking on his humans and visiting Deuteronomy. And all of that would likely go by much quicker if he weren’t dragging Tugger along with him, but the little scamp makes so many problems so frequently that Munk doesn’t like to leave him to his own devices for long. So he has to drag his little brother along with him– to Tugger’s distaste and Munk’s annoyance.
The age gap between him and Tugger is bigger than the one between him and Macavity, but he sometimes wonders if Macavity were ever so irked by a little Munkustrap. Although Macavity had by far less patience than Munk, little Munk was by far better behaved than Tugger here, and Munk– promised himself that he wasn’t going to waste any more time brooding about Macavity. He has more important things to think about.
It really isn’t a long to-do list, but every time Munk finishes some task, Tugger looks up at him and asks, “Are we going back to the junkyard now?” as if he’s not usually thrilled to be doing something ‘exciting’.
“What are you so eager to get back for?” Munk asks him at one point.
“I wanna talk to the kitten again.”
“The kitten?” It takes Munk a moment to follow. “Oh. His name is–”
“I don’t want you to tell me his name,” Tugger cuts him off, small and cross.
Munk sighs, squeezing under a fence and waiting for Tugger to prance through behind him. “He won’t talk to you. He doesn’t talk at all.”
“He can’t?”
“I… I’m not sure. He hasn’t talked... Though I think he can.”
Tugger seems satisfied by that admittedly unhelpful answer. “Then he will.”
“He has yet to speak to anyone, Tugger.”
“Then I’ll be the first! Everyone wants to talk to me. Except Alonzo, but that’s because he’s dumb.”
“That’s because you antagonize him.”
“Antag o’ rice,” Tugger echoes with curiosity.
“Antagonize. You make him angry on purpose.”
“Oh. So can we go back now?”
“No, we can’t. Come on, don’t you wanna visit Dad?”
“No,” Tugger snorts.
Munk should know better than to be disappointed at that response by now, but it still smarts at him on their father’s behalf. “I hope you won’t say that to him.”
“Why do I have to be like you whenever I talk to him?”
“It’s called being respectful,” Munk corrects him. “He loves you very much, you know; it’s only right that you treat him well in return.”
Tugger frowns up at Munk. “If he loves me then why do I have to be not like-me when I talk to him?”
“What do you mean, not like-you?”
“I have to act like I’m not me. Like I’m you instead. I don’t want to be you, it’s boring and lame. I want to be me.”
“If by ‘be you’ you mean ‘be rude’ then that’s just not an option,” Munk dismisses, and Tugger’s only response is to blow the bangs out of his face.
By the time they return, the moon is close to the horizon and Tugger is dead on his feet. Munk drops him off at their den –literally, as at some point Tugger had insisted he wouldn’t walk another step unless Munk carried him– and goes to check on the other two kittens and Jenny.
“They’re ballet cats!” the queen greets Munk with a broad smile after he finds them in one of the dancing spots. The kittens are both curled up in the shadow of a junked car, sleeping peacefully.
“Those two?”
“Ballet cats!” Jenny repeats. “Jelly said their mother mentioned it to her. I had them show me their positions. Very talented, the both of them. Mistoffelees astounds, but he is the older one.”
“Really?” Munk prompts. “Did they talk?”
“No, but they take instruction well. And I think they might’ve been whispering to each other before they nodded off.”
“I was beginning to wonder if they could,” Munk admits nervously.
Jenny rolls her eyes at him. “Their mother never mentioned them being mute. No need to twist yourself into a pretzel, Munk. But I will have you take them back to the kittens’ den. Mistoffelees is a little big for a queen of my size to go carrying anywhere, and I doubt they’ll want to walk.”
“Right. Thanks, Jenny.”
“No problem, dear,” Jenny says on her way out. “Get some rest, won’t you? You look tired.”
That leaves him with the kittens once she’s gone. For a moment Munk’s worried about scaring them if he just crosses over and shakes them awake, but before he’s taken more than a half-dozen steps in their direction, Mistoffelees opens his little eyes and blinks Munk’s way. He nudges his sister and pushes to sit with a yawn, though he doesn’t stand. Victoria peels herself up as well, following in her brother’s wake with a charming little squint. When Munk gets within a few pawsteps, she just reaches up for him, eyes half closed and shoulders slumped.
Munk’s a little taken aback at the easy trust, but they are clearly tired. He crouches down and scoops up Victoria in one arm; at first he thinks Mistoffelees may want to walk, but the little tuxedo only stands for the sake of stretching his arms up to the purpling sky before flopping full-body against Munk’s chest. Munk scoops him up too and carries them off to the kittens’ den, pleased at the lack of fear from the sleepy kittens.
~
Munk wouldn’t admit to the fact that he tends to off-handedly forget a lot of what Tugger says, because that sounds bad, but the thing is that Tugger says all sorts of nonsense that may be true one night and completely irrelevant the next. His likes and dislikes change at the drop of a hat, and he may be entirely focused on doing something and then entirely forget about it within the next hour. So frankly Tugger just says things a lot that have no bearing on anything in the future, so Munk doesn’t dwell on what comes out of his mouth much.
So Munk admittedly kind of forgot all about his brother’s inclination towards Mistoffelees, and isn’t at all suspicious when he takes Tugger to the clearing the next morning and the little scamp straightens at the sight of the two kittens sitting with Jenny near the stairs to the tire. Jenny is showing a rapt Victoria her embroidery, but Mistoffelees is sitting on the concrete at the base of the other side of the stairs, watching the small group of cats currently gliding across the dance floor with a quiet, rather unkittenlike, focus.
But since Munk had forgotten about it, he glances at the two kittens with mild curiosity, and thinks nothing of it when Tugger bounds off, just barely circling the dance floor instead of charging straight through it.
“Watch it, Tugger!” Munk shouts when his brother only dodges a dancing tom by a pawstep. He follows passively, calling an apology to the dancer along the way– who responds with an amused shrug before whirling away.
Tugger doesn’t hop up to the TSE or one of the other nearby junk piles like he usually does, and Munk only realizes he’s headed for Mistoffelees once he’s already nearly bowled the smaller kitten over.
“Hi!” Tugger chirps, rolling head-over-tail to a stop beside Mistoffelees, who flinches away from the louder and faster cat suddenly in his space. “Do you remember me, I’m Tugger, you didn’t tell me your name last time–”
“Tugger!” Munk barks, speeding up to a jog.
“Oh, leave him alone, Tugger,” Jenny sighs, leaning over Victoria and her embroidery ring.
“I’m just talking,” Tugger grouches upwards, too busy being annoyed at getting scolded to notice Mistoffelees scooching away from him.
“He doesn’t wish to talk to you,” Jenny responds pointedly as Munk slows before them. Ears flat against his head, Mistoffelees looks very much like he wants to be saved, especially when Tugger looks over and realizes his new fixation has wiggled away.
“Tugger,” Munk scolds, and stoops down to pick Mistoffelees up when Tugger pushes forward onto his knees like he’s going to crawl after him. Mistoffelees allows the treatment, and even holds himself steady on Munk’s shoulder once he’s settled.
“What?” Tugger demands, ears flattening as he pouts. “We’re friends.”
“You’re not friends, Tugger,” Munk sighs with all the patience needed for the night-to-night undertaking of explaining to Tugger that just because he wants something doesn’t mean he immediately gets it.
“We will be friends,” Tugger corrects himself. “Once you let me actually talk to him for once.”
Munk opens his mouth to respond to that, but he’s beaten to the punch by a tiny voice that sounds next to his ear.
“You’re annoying.”
Munk looks over at Mistoffelees, shocked to silence by the sound of his voice. The kitten doesn’t look back at him though; he’s too busy frowning down at Tugger by their feet. Munk follows his gaze back down to Tugger, staring blankly up at Misto in return. A moment or two passes in silence, then Tugger pumps his fists in the air with that grin of his.
“I told you he’d talk to me!” Tugger cackles to the sky, leaving Mistoffelees looking somewhat regretful. Popping to his two paws, Tugger plasters his hands against Munk’s ribs, chattering up at the younger kitten. “How annoying am I? Like super-duper annoying or only a little? What about on a scale of one to ten? Do you know how to count yet?”
Mistoffelees is now quiet in response, mouth so flat that it’s obvious he doesn’t want to give Tugger the satisfaction of another retort. “Oh, why don’t you go climb or play or something, Tugger?” Munk prompts, putting a hand on Tugger’s forehead and using it to pry him away. “You got what you wanted.”
“No I didn’t!” Tugger insists, as if he’s been slighted by this fact. “He didn’t tell me his name.”
“It’s–”
“I don’t want you to tell me!” Tugger cuts Munk off, grabbing his wrist and pulling his hand off his forehead.
“Don’t act spoiled, Tugger,” Munk chides. “I’m going to get some things done. You stay in the clearing.”
“What?” Tugger starts after Munk when he turns to go, taking Mistoffelees with him. “I want to come.”
“No, you don’t,” Munk calls over his shoulder.
Tugger keeps following him. “But–”
Munk twists at the hips, pointing sternly at the ground. “Stay. Here.”
Tugger scowls at that, and flops to sit cross-legged on the concrete, arms tightly crossed.
“Good,” Munk says, then starts to leave again; he pointedly ignores it when Tugger proceeds to fling himself onto his back in their wake.
He also ignores it when his brother follows that up with a warbling, “UggggggghhhhhgggghghhGHggghhHHhh–” noise.
“Tugger, you are far too old to be throwing tantrums!” Jenny yells, and Tugger just responds by bumping it up in pitch. Feeling badly, but not badly enough to throw Mistoffelees back to the metaphorical wolf, Munk marches out of the clearing without looking back.
He’s only ducked out of the nearest entrance to the clearing when he abruptly wonders if Mistoffelees even wants to come along with him right now; the little guy may not want to be separated from his sister. So Munk stops in his tracks and tucks his chin in to peer down at the kitten.
“I’m sorry about Tugger,” he starts. “He’s a bit much for everyone.” In response Mistoffelees blinks at Munk with his big yellow eyes and says nothing. “You can stay with your sister, though, if you like,” he continues after a moment. “Or she can come with us if you want to be away from Tugger.” When Mistoffelees still doesn’t respond, he awkwardly adds, “I don’t know if you’d want to be separated from her.”
He belatedly realizes that none of those were yes or no questions, so of course Mistoffelees isn’t going to answer if he can’t nod or shake his head to do so. “Do–” he starts, but Mistoffelees cuts him off again.
“Will that… nice lady stay with her?”
“Jenny?” Munk asks, only pausing in surprise at his little voice for a moment this time. “Yes, Jenny will stay with Victoria.”
“Okay,” Mistoffelees promptly concedes, plunking his cheek against Munk’s shoulder. And that’s that.
Munk has to assume the two must’ve been separated sometimes when they were with their mother, because when he returns to the clearing later that afternoon Mistoffelees and Victoria reunite with only a passing bonk of their foreheads, not even quite a nuzzle. Someone must’ve given Victoria a piece of chalk, as she’s drawing spirals on the concrete by the tire with Jenny watching from a little ways away.
“Where’d the scamp go?” Munk asks, crossing over to her.
She waves a hand. “A few older kittens got sick of his noise and offered to take him to the dumpsters to find a snack.”
“Sorry about him.”
“Don’t worry about it, dear; no one can control that boy. What did Mistoffelees do to earn his attention?”
“I have no clue.”
Jenny snorts. “Well, I’m sure Tugger will forget all about it tomorrow night. Like always.”
Mistoffelees trudges into the big clearing along with the older kittens that live here, hand-in-hand with Victoria. Back with Mother, the only time they left their den was when they were with her, so all of this back and forthing without any adults around makes him nervous. The den all the kittens sleep in is just off the big clearing, so he supposes it would be hard to get lost or hurt or anything, but… he’d still prefer to be with Mother.
That’s not an option though. Probably. The junkyard cats only let them see her sometimes.
Victoria may be aware of where Mistoffelees’s thoughts have led. “Mama tonight?” she asks, twisting to look at him.
“I don’t think s-s-so, Vicky,” Mistoffelees responds, ears flat. A couple of the other kittens abruptly laugh behind them and then tear past on four legs, bounding through the entrance to the big clearing marked with a couple rusty poles that make an archway.
“Oh,” Victoria responds. “…Mama tomorrow?”
“I don’t know.” He lets go when she wiggles her paw out of his and takes to the steps before them crawling instead of walking. She’s not good at steps on two feet yet. At the top of the few shallow stairs she pops back up on her feet and re-takes his hand.
There are a lot of cats in the clearing, like always. It just seems to be a place that everyone goes to hang out, kittens and adults alike– and unlike most of the places Mistoffelees has been before, no one hisses at each other for getting to close, and no one regards each other with distrustful stares. He doesn’t get why it’s different here, and it bothers him, not knowing. The fact that no one bothered to explain it makes him even more itchy; it’s probably one of those things everyone but him understands without saying.
He looks around, lingering awkwardly by the entrance. The clearing is surrounded by piles of junk that cats hang about on, like the stack of crates to his left or the twisty metal thing on the right. But he doesn’t see the nice red queen Jenny anywhere, nor can he spot the gray tabby who’s supposed to replace their mother, Munk. Someone always comes by and feeds them, but it’s a different cat every night, and Mistoffelees doesn’t know who he should ask, besides either of them. Maybe it’s not breakfast time anyways. He doesn’t know.
“Hiii Victoria!” a group of queens call to Vicky from their spot sitting in front of a big broken car, waving at his sister. She slowly lifts a hand and waggles her paw back, and the girls all coo and giggle.
“Who are they?” Mistoffelees asks.
“Dunno.” Vicky shrugs, turning to Mistoffelees. “Dey gave me chalk last night and said my name was pretty.”
Mistoffelees hasn’t really met anyone nice. Except Munk and Jenny, he supposes.
“Can I go sit with dem?” Victoria then asks. Mistoffelees wants to tell her no, mostly because he doesn’t know who he’ll sit with without her, but she looks so hopeful and her eyes are so big, so he just nods and releases her hand. He watches her crawl over to the older queens while feeling like something is squeezing around his throat; they all greet her with big smiles and scooch over so she can sit among them. One of even them pats her head and she smiles and pushes up into it, which they all coo at.
They don’t even look at him. He turns and scans over the clearing; none of the other kittens have really spoken to him or Vicky yet, beyond a few telling them their names. Like Alonzo, who’s black and white and so much bigger than him, sitting at the base of the grating with a couple tabby kittens who Misto doesn’t know.
He doesn’t want to go talk to them. Alonzo is older, and seemed kind of scary. And he doesn’t know any of the adults here. No Munk, no Jenny. His tail droops as he peers over the area again. Maybe he can find somewhere to hide for a while and just keep an eye on Vicky from afar while she has fun–
Mistoffelees loses his train of thought when something barrels into him with enough force to send both him and it rolling across the clearing. Mistoffelees flinches and curls inward as he tumbles, then flops onto his back when the clearing stops spinning around him. Propping himself onto his elbows, he finds that the thing that had knocked him off his feet is laughing.
He sits the rest of the way up and scratches behind his ear, staring at the kitten lying on his stomach beside Mistoffelees. He recognizes the (for some reason) cackling kitten; he’s the loud annoying one from the other night, bigger than Mistoffelees and twice as fluffy too.
“Hi!” The kitten says when he looks over at sees Mistoffelees staring at him. His name is… Tugger, Mistoffelees is pretty sure. Tugger pushes up onto his hands and knees and leans into Mistoffelees’s space. “Do you remember me?”
Yes, Mistoffelees does remember him. Unfortunately. He squirms backwards and scratches behind his ear again. He doesn’t know why this one specific kitten keeps seeking him out specifically, and it… bothers him. He doesn’t know why him specifically, and none of the adults have questioned Tugger on the subject either, so it’s probably another one of those things Mistoffelees specifically doesn’t understand. The idea that he may unknowingly stick out in some way to the other kittens that don’t even know him makes him twitch.
“I’m Tugger, in case you forgot,” Tugger explains, leaning up on his knees. It’s probably the third or fourth time he’s introduced himself to Mistoffelees so far. “What’s your name?”
And he keeps asking that. Mistoffelees has no clue why Tugger here is so insistent to hear his name from him– the weirdo even told Munk not to tell him the other night. Before, Mistoffelees hadn’t wanted to give such an annoying kitten the satisfaction, but without Munk here to intervene for him he’s a tad more desperate. Hopefully telling him will make him go away.
“…It’s Mistoffel-elees.”
“Mis-TAW-fell-el-ees?” Tugger echoes, sounding out what Mistoffelees had said slowly.
“No.” Mistoffelees screws up his face. It’s easier to not mess up the words if he speaks slowly, so he does, and carefully repeats, “Mist-off-el-ees.”
Tugger tilts his head in thought. “Wow. That’s still a mouthful. How about Misto?”
…Misto? The ‘toh’ sound isn’t even in Mistoffelees. Why did Tugger want to know his name so badly if he was just going to change it around?
“Didn’t Munk tell you to stop bullying him?”
Mistoffelees twists to look up at the kitten who’s joined them: Alonzo, crossing around Mistoffelees on two legs. Tugger regards the older kitten with a frown. “We’re talking.”
“Yeah, and Munk told you not to,” Alonzo points out.
“Well, Munk’s gone,” Tugger responds. “So it shouldn’t be a problem. Unless some tattletale wants to stick their nose where it doesn’t belong.”
Mistoffelees looks between the two older kittens, not sure if he should be hoping Tugger or Alonzo will win their argument. He’s not sure if he likes either of them.
“He’d probably be here if you didn’t annoy him so much.”
“I wouldn’t annoy him if he weren’t so boring all the time. Like you.”
Alonzo’s lip curls, and he drops onto all fours. Mistoffelees scooches away a bit, and then a bit further when neither tom seems to notice him move. “Don’t know why a baby would know what’s boring and what’s not.”
For some weird reason, Tugger seems to actually enjoy making the bigger older kitten bristle. He stays on his knees and grins at Alonzo, scrunching up his nose. “I may be a baby, but at least the other cats like me.”
“They pretend to like you. Because of your dad.”
“And they just ignore you. They probably couldn’t pretend to like you if they tried. Because you’re so boring.” Tugger tilts his head, eyes scrunched shut with what looks like mirth to Mistoffelees. “Even Munk probably thinks you’re boring. I bet that’s why he never pays any attention to you.”
Alonzo’s ears flatten and his shoulders tense up. Mistoffelees knows what a cat who’s about to attack looks like, and even on a kitten he has no intention of sticking around and seeing it happen. So with that, Mistoffelees rolls over onto his four paws and scrambles away. Alonzo growls something else he barely hears while busy escaping, and Tugger responds; a screech follows that has Mistoffelees twisting around, and he cringes at the sight of Tugger and bigger, heavier Alonzo rolling across the concrete.
“Boys!” a cat yells, and a couple others come bounding over. Mistoffelees doesn’t like Tugger enough to stick around or turn back, even at the loud wail of “He hurt me!” that sounds while Mistoffelees is crawling within one of the crates on the opposite side of the clearing.
Mistoffelees twists around in his safe spot to watch the chaos. A few grown cats have crossed the clearing and are standing amongst Alonzo and Tugger. Despite the fact that that wail was definitely Tugger, the striped kitten doesn’t look hurt: he’s standing behind an older blue queen who’s lecturing Alonzo, wearing a satisfied smile on his face and holding one arm limply in front of him.
The cats eventually dismiss Tugger and Alonzo after a few minutes of stern talking and pointing and gesturing; Tugger goes towards the car and Alonzo heads back to the grating, shoulders hunched and fists clenched.
Mistoffelees has no idea what he just witnessed, or why he had to be involved in it. He doesn’t get anything that happens around here. He’s never seen any cats act like this– are they all part of the same colony? Mother always hated colonies, so Mistoffelees doesn’t know why she’d bring them to live with one, even if she is sick.
And everyone seems so much nicer than colony cats. Mistoffelees doesn’t think any colony cats he’s met would split up a couple fighting kittens. Unless they were from different colonies, he guesses. Don’t want to look bad in front of your neighbors by letting your kittens get into fights.
He doesn’t get any of this. Who’s supposed to be feeding them, or why they’re feeding them, or why they can’t stay with Mother, or why these cats all treat him and Victoria and the other kittens so strangely. They’ll think he’s stupid if he asks, though, he just knows it.
Maybe he can ask Mother next time they let him see her. Though she’s been having so many problems talking lately who knows if she’ll be able to explain it to him. He doesn’t want to make her hurt more than she already is while trying to explain stuff to him he should already know.
He curls up tighter and drags his paws over his ears. Sniffing wetly, he closes his eyes and curls his tail around his thighs.
He wakes up, some amount of time later, to the sound of Tugger’s voice again. “–he’s a tuxedo cat. And little.”
Mistoffelees’s ears flatten as he lifts his head. There’s no way that’s not about him.
“We haven’t seen him, sweetie,” a queen’s voice replies.
“He was around last night, wasn’t he?” a deeper voice adds. “One of those two new kittens.”
“Only for a little bit,” Tugger responds. Mistoffelees pushes to his paws and creeps forward as slowly and as silently as he can. He’s just above and to the side of where those voices are coming from; when he pokes his head just out over the edge of the dark crate he curled up in, he can see the end of Tugger’s fluffy tail. There’s a small space over there, just big enough for a modest group of cats to sit. Considering how close those voices sound, that must be exactly what’s going on. “I think he got lost. I can’t find him.”
“The sides of the clearing are a little steep for a kitten to climb,” another voice speaks up. “Did you check the kittens’ den?”
“Yeah. Twice.”
Mistoffelees creeps out a little further. He scans the clearing, looking for a new hiding space to relocate to, because Tugger just might find him if he stays here. The grating is all the way across the dance floor, but Mistoffelees thinks he could skitter across without Tugger noticing him.
“He’s probably napping in some corner. There are quite a few spots out here to hide if you know where to–”
He goes to jump down, then freezes; one of the cats Tugger’s talking to might spot him. He backs up, trying to keep his pawsteps light, but when he puts his weight on one section of the crate it creaks, and Mistoffelees cringes. The adult cat speaking falls silent, and Mistoffelees, thoroughly panicked, just decides to go for it. He jumps down to the next level of crates–
Which puts him right next to Tugger. “Misto!” the bigger kitten chirps in cheer, and snatches up Mistoffelees’s arm with a surprising speed. Snagged, Misto is so caught off guard that his brain doesn’t fully catch up with his paws, and he just barely manages to stop himself from jumping down to the concrete floor anyways, probably hauling Tugger along with him. Instead of a fall, he only manages an ungainly skid sideways, pivoting around their joined arms gracelessly.
“Woah!” one of the nearby adult cats cries out, and Mistoffelees finds himself scruffed before he manages to fall off the crate and take Tugger down with him.
“Careful, little guy,” the queen who’d scruffed him coos before placing him on her lap. Mistoffelees freezes, glancing back and forth at the small group of cats sitting on the crate: Tugger, the queen whose lap he’s sitting on, two toms, and another queen on their opposite side.
“What were you doing in there?” Tugger asks, crawling over the queen’s ginger thigh to join Mistoffelees in her lap. Mistoffelees withers at the invasion of his space, leaning hard against the hand she has against his back.
“You’re making him nervous, Tugger,” one of the toms chides, a dark tabby with a white belly.
“No I’m not!” Tugger insists, putting one of his hands on Mistoffelees’s knee so he can crawl closer to him. “We’re friends.”
He then leans in to nuzzle Mistoffelees, which he doesn’t like one bit– he hates it when the fur on his neck and jaw is rubbed backwards, and that’s exactly what Tugger is doing to it. He grimaces and slides down, his back to the queen’s folded calf, and wedges his hands between their faces, trying to shove the bigger kitten away from him.
“Are you sure you’re friends?” the tom asks. The other queen leans over and silently scruffs Tugger, pulling him off of Mistoffelees and settling him atop the queen’s other knee, an acceptable distance away.
“We are!” Tugger insists again, frowning when the other tom chuckles a little.
“Both cats have to agree to be friends if they want to be, Tugger,” the queen who’d pulled Tugger away adds.
“But–!” Tugger starts, only to cut himself off with a shocked little “Gah!” when he’s plucked off of his feet by the scruff.
Notes:
Ooh, a cliffhanger! Anyways, you can find me at millenari dot tumblr dot heck if you'd like to keep up with me.
Chapter Text
Munk takes about three steps into the clearing before Adelia pops up at his side. “Um,” she starts, a basket on her hip. “I don’t want to alarm you, Munk–”
There are no series of words in this world that alarm Munk more than those do. “What happened?” he demands, ears flattening.
Adelia lifts her free paw. “Nothing, nothing happened. But I was going to feed the kittens and I can’t find Mistoffelees.”
“Oh.” Munk settles somewhat. Mistoffelees is too little to climb out of the clearing, and he doubts the surrounding cats would let him just walk out of one of the exits without asking him where he’s going. “Did you check–”
“The kittens’ den, yeah. His sister was no help either; she just stared at me when I asked where he was.”
“He’s probably hiding,” Munk figures. “I’ll look around for him.”
He starts a slow circuit of the clearing after breaking off from Adelia, checking tucked away or high-up spots a little kitten might’ve squeezed inside. Misto is particularly smallish, so Munk has to keep an eye out for even the tiniest of cracks, but only a few minutes into this endeavor he hears Tugger’s voice.
“No I’m not!” his little brother chirps. Munk turns towards the sound on instinct, frowning in the direction of the crates. “We’re friends!”
There’s only one cat in the junkyard Tugger would make that claim about. With a sigh, Munk marches on over, spotting Tugger’s fluffy tail easily amongst the small group of younger cats sitting atop the crates. One of them says something to Tugger, and then a queen scoops him up by the scruff and hauls him out of the cat’s lap he’d been sitting in.
“We are!” Tugger exclaims in response to something one of the cats says, and Munk catches his first glimpse of Mistoffelees as he nears, curled up atop the thigh of the queen Tugger had just gotten hauled off of.
“Both cats have to agree to be friends if they want to be, Tugger.”
“But–!” Munk reaches out and scruffs the little scamp before he can continue whatever excuse he’d been about to make, and Tugger responds to this with a yelped, “Gah!”
Munk tosses him gently to the concrete below. “I told you to leave Mistoffelees alone,” he reminds Tugger sternly, which of course has no effect. And to think he’d only left him to his own devices for a few minutes…
“But we’re friends!” he complains as he pops to his feet immediately, reaching up to pat his paws on the edge of the crate the older cats are sitting on, searching for a clawhold.
“No you aren’t,” Munk corrects him.
“Sorry, Munk, we didn’t know he was misbehaving,” one of the nearby toms says.
“Don’t worry about it, Willifur,” Munk brushes off the apology at the same time Tugger manages to boost himself up. Promptly, Munk pushes his brother back down again, ignoring Tugger’s following offended noise. He returns his attention to Mistoffelees, still curled up in the queen’s lap. “Have you eaten, Mistoffelees?”
Mistoffelees shakes his head no, then crawls forward when Munk holds out his arms.
“Adelia got something for you and your sister, but she couldn’t find you,” Munk explains, holding Tugger at bay with one foot while hauling Mistoffelees onto his hip. He turns to start across the clearing, Tugger scampering behind them.
“How come you can just drag him around whenever you want but I can’t talk to him?” Tugger demands as he follows Munk across the currently empty dance floor.
“Because I’m an adult.”
“So I have to wait until I’m an adult to play with Misto?”
“No, Tugger,” Munk sighs forcefully, stopping to turn to the kitten. “Even when you’re an adult you won’t be able to just decide you’re entitled to other cats’ attention. Just because you want something doesn’t mean you get it; I don’t know how many times I have to explain this to you.”
Tugger frowns through this lecture, not looking moved. His dark glare flicks between Mistoffelees and Munk before he says, “I wanna play with Misto.”
“Well, you can’t,” Munk responds.
Tugger’s lower lip juts out, and then he takes a deep breath that Munk knows from experience doesn’t mean anything good. He opens his mouth to speak again, but–
“I wanna plaaaay with Mistoooooooo!” Tugger wails, tilting his head back to the stars. The cry starts out just regular old loud and annoying, but with a control Munk will reluctantly admit is impressive for Tugger’s age, steadily rises in pitch and volume until Mistoffelees is twisting against Munk’s shoulder, face screwing up as if the sound physically pains him.
“Tugger!” Munk barks, but his voice is nearly lost under the shrieking. He crouches low and grabs Tugger by the shoulder to shake him, but of course that does nothing and Tugger continues to wail. Mistoffelees lifts clawed hands to hover on either side of his head while Munk’s trying to get Tugger to knock it off, and his shoulders are bunching up in obvious distress, so Munk doesn’t think anything of it when he wiggles away and onto the concrete. If he could, Munk would run away from this display too.
However he does think something of it when Mistoffelees doesn’t scurry off and instead ducks around Munk’s leg to place himself before Tugger, popping onto his tiptoes to plaster both of his hands over Tugger's shrieking mouth.
“SHUT UP!” little Mistoffelees shouts in an appropriately little yell, shocking both Munk and Tugger to stillness and silence. Mouth finally shut, Tugger tilts his head back down to peer at Mistoffelees with wide eyes.
In the following silence, Mistoffelees retracts his paws to scratch behind his ear; in the scant couple seconds it takes him to do that, Tugger recovers entirely from his surprise and goes right back to grinning cheerily. “Do you want to play ball?” he actually has the nerve to ask.
Mistoffelees scratches his shoulder. “You’re annoying.”
“You already said that,” Tugger reminds him, big-eyed and smiling despite getting only an insult as an answer. He looks less thrilled when Munk stoops down to push him away and then scoops Mistoffelees up again. “Munk– waaait!” Tugger cries, reaching up with splayed fingers.
“Tugger, I already told you, you and Mistoffelees aren’t friends,” Munk explains sternly, holding Mistoffelees against his hip with one arm. Tugger has to learn at some point that he can’t just scream to get the things he wants. At this point pretty much everyone in the Yard has had to power through several of Tugger’s obnoxious tantrums to assist in driving that point home to the little scamp, and Munk’s not going to give in now.
Tugger scowls up at Munk, clearly not taking the lesson to heart. Instead of responding in any meaningful or mature way, he just takes another deep breath, which makes Mistoffelees wiggle his legs on Munk’s hip. “Don’t make that noise again!” he whines.
“I won’t if you play ball with me,” Tugger promises after exhaling in a whoosh.
“Tugger.” Munk interjects before Tugger can get a response, twisting towards him so the hip Mistoffelees is on is facing away from his brother. “This is not how you make friends.”
“Well how else am I supposed to make friends with him if you won’t ever let me talk to him?”
“He doesn’t want to be your friend.”
“So I’m supposed to make friends by giving up before I can even try?”
Munk sighs, though his attention is pulled from his brother when Mistoffelees wiggles again. “Lemme down,” he murmurs to Munk with his feet kicking, which Munk does. Reluctantly. Tugger grins at Mistoffelees again once they’re both on the ground, but he doesn’t say anything until Mistoffelees eventually grouches, “W-where’s your stupid ball?”
Tugger tilts his head up to beam at Munk. But, “No,” Munk says heatedly. “Tugger, you can’t–”
“He said yes,” Tugger cuts him off.
“I said yes,” Mistoffelees agrees. Also reluctantly. And, untouched by his obvious lack of enthusiasm, Tugger grins over at Mistoffelees and then nods eagerly up at Munk.
“You don’t have to, Mistoffelees,” Munk tells the kitten.
Of course the worst part of this situation is that it would be easier for Munk (and his eardrums) if little Mistoffelees here just… went along with Tugger. Played with him, or… whatever it is Tugger is so interested in doing. Munk has plenty of responsibilities on his night-to-night, and big shoes to fill while maintaining those responsibilities, so he doesn’t have the time to constantly keep an eye on the Mistoffelees-Tugger situation. And he’s sure Tugger knows that.
He’s not just going to leave Mistoffelees here to suffer Tugger’s interest if he doesn’t want to bear it… but it would be convenient if he decided he did genuinely want to. And Tugger so rarely even expresses interest in making friends. Maybe this could be… good for him. Or something.
“He knows,” Tugger retorts for Mistoffelees, then grabs his wrist. “Come on, Misto–”
“No,” Munk repeats, grabbing both of their arms and halting the pair in their tracks. Tugger groans, but Mistoffelees just twists to look his way. “Don’t whine, Tugger, he hasn’t eaten yet.” Reluctantly, Munk pauses before sighing, “…You can play after Mistoffelees eats.”
Admittedly it’s not like Tugger is the only one who could sorely use a friend here. Maybe this could be good for them both.
Tugger frowns at Munk as if he’s expecting a trick, but he does release Mistoffelees so that Munk can pick him up again. Mistoffelees allows this without complaint, and doesn’t comment as Munk leads their little entourage across the clearing.
“Sounds like the little man’s really going to be a singing cat, huh?” a nearby tom perched on the grating comments to Munk on the way over. “He’s got the lungs for it.”
“Don’t encourage him,” Munk mutters back.
Tugger follows Mistoffelees and Munk across the clearing, towards the TSE where Adelia waits in the shadow of the old junked car, brushing down the fluff on her chest with a singular focus.
“I found him,” Munk greets his friend, who lifts her chin and smiles at the sight of them. After setting Mistoffelees down on the concrete to be tended by Adelia, he grabs Tugger by the arm.
“Munk–” Tugger initially complains, trying to wiggle his arm away, but Munk holds tight and leads his little brother away from Adelia and Misto.
Once sufficiently alone, Munk crouches on the balls of his feet before Tugger and shakes his captured arm a bit in emphasis. “You can’t just throw a tantrum and scream to get what you want, Tugger.”
“I just did,” Tugger responds, sounding confused.
“It’s not fair to other cats,” Munk explains slowly. “It’s not fair to Mistoffelees, or me, or everyone else in the clearing to have to listen to you do that.”
“That one cat thought it was funny,” Tugger points out.
“That–” Munk starts, then sighs. “Just because he found it funny doesn’t mean he wasn’t annoyed, and just because one cat thought it was funny doesn’t mean everyone else wasn’t annoyed.”
“Well, if you weren’t trying to hide Misto away all the time then I wouldn’t have to yell.”
“Tugger…”
This damned kitten must’ve been born with the preconception that the entire world revolves around him. As much as the other cats dote on the little scamp, he doesn’t think the tribe has raised Tugger so poorly. He hopes not at least.
“What?”
“You are the most spoiled kitten in London, I swear,” Munk mutters, releasing Tugger’s arm to rub his face.
“So?”
He fixes his brother with a glare. “This stunt isn’t going to work next time, alright?”
“You’ve said that before,” Tugger dismisses him, and Munk decides to let that comment go. Only because technically it’s true. Kneeling, he watches Tugger scamper back over to Mistoffelees, who’s licking the last bits of what’s probably fish off of his paws. “Are you done?”
Mistoffelees eyes Tugger for a long moment, fingers curling into his palms before him; after a time, he nods once. Of course Tugger doesn’t waste any time once receiving the go-ahead from little Mistoffelees, and immediately grabs him by the arm, dragging the littler kitten off.
Munk turns his head to watch them. He doesn’t have much to do until moonrise tonight, so it might be a good idea to keep an eye on these two while he can. At least this way he can head off any undesirable behavior of Tugger’s as soon as it starts.
Tugger leads Mistoffelees over to the tire, nearly prancing with what Munk has to assume is triumph. He releases his living cargo when they stop before the tire’s steps, and smiles up at the cats who’re sitting up on it.
“Hi Tugger,” one of them says. “What are you up to?”
“We’re going to play ball,” Tugger explains. In response, one of the toms in the group stoops down to scoop up the ball from within the hollow center of the tire, tossing it down to him.
Tugger stares down at the rubber ball in his hands for a moment, frowning with dissatisfaction. He looks up at the group of cats before tossing the ball back up. “I wanted to get it myself.”
The queen who’d caught the ball laughs at Tugger’s now-infamous fickleness, dropping the ball back where her friend had gotten it. “He wanted to get it himself, Ploud.”
“Come on, man,” one of the other toms laughs along.
“I’m sorry,” Ploud tells Tugger with somewhat amused sincerity. Tugger ignores the apology regardless and hops up the stairs before scrambling up the tire, claws pricking into the rubber as he hauls himself up.
“Who’s your friend, Tugger?” one of the queens watching him asks.
“Misto,” Tugger replies, dropping onto his stomach to scoop up the ball.
“Hi, Misto,” she directs Mistoffelees’s way, waving a hand while her friends echo her greeting.
Now equipped with the ball, Tugger slides off of the tire and onto the steps, watching Mistoffelees stare silently at the older cats with his pink nose scrunched up.
“He’s shy,” he explains to their audience before hopping down to the concrete.
“I’m not shy,” Mistoffelees says to him, frowning; Munk raises his brows from his spot, still kneeling several paces away. He says that with quite a bit of offense for a kitten who’d made Munk wonder if he were possibly mute for a multiple-night span.
Tugger shrugs, not attempting to argue. “Then say hi.”
Mistoffelees twists to look up at the cats a moment more, taking a long time to eventually peep out a short, “Hi,” paired with a waggle of his paw that has the group on the tire cooing and waving back.
“Do they not say hi where you’re from?” Tugger asks, leading Mistoffelees further into the center of the clearing with the ball between both paws. Munk stands as his voice starts to fade a little on the soft early-spring breeze, and heads towards the tire on distracted paws.
“No,” Mistoffelees responds shortly. “Not unless they want something.”
Tugger pauses at that answer; it’s possible that it may surprise him. Munk knows Mistoffelees had been raised outside of a colony and outside of the Yard; as a lonesome stray out in London’s streets, his mother probably had few friends or allies, and fewer still who took any interest in her offspring. Tugger, raised here in the Yard for most of his life, probably has little understanding of such a thing, and Munk hopes he’s not going to be mean about it.
“Hey, kid,” one of the lounging cats greets Munk when he settles down on the tire’s steps; Ploud, one of the junkyard regulars who is frankly only a couple years older than Munk. Munk grimaces when Ploud reaches down from his spot on the tire and ruffles between his ears, and Ploud’s friends laugh when Munk twists to bat him off. It’s embarrassing at best. Hell, it was embarrassing back before he’d been placed in charge of the junkyard. No one would even think of ever condescending to Macavity in such a familiar manner, but of course Munk doesn’t have that kind of respect.
“Hi, whatever,” Munk mutters back after fending off Ploud and shifting down a step to get out of range of the red cat’s paws. Luckily his distraction didn’t last long enough for him to miss Tugger’s thoughtful reply.
“What do you say when you meet new people?”
“Nothing,” Mistoffelees responds. When Tugger stops walking, Mistoffelees does as well, scratching at his shoulder and looking down at the toy in Tugger’s hands. “I don’t… know how to–”
In a rather odd fashion Mistoffelees blinks hard mid-sentence, head tilted down and mouth half-open. It’s not quite like his nervous hesitation only a second ago, and Munk squints his way, a touch concerned by whatever has come over the little guy. Whatever it is, it only lasts a second or two.
“–do whatever you want me to do.”
Tugger looks down at the ball in his hands, then up at Mistoffelees before him. “Play ball?” When Mistoffelees doesn’t respond, Tugger adds with a frown, “Do they not have ball where you’re from either?”
“We had balls,” Mistoffelees says, shoulders rising. “In our old den. But we didn’t… p-play ‘ball’.” And that pause seems more like his first one, just awkwardly trailing off in the way a shy confused kitten does sometimes. “Whatever that means.”
And as much as he’s surprised at Tugger’s capability to eek nearly a full conversation out of the quiet little tuxedo, Munk is sort of prepared for his brother to make some thoughtless or even mean comment in response to that. Tugger is rarely mean on purpose, but he is equipped with very little filter between his brain and his mouth, and Mistoffelees here seems to be sensitive.
But instead, Tugger just gestures with the ball. “Hold up your hands,” he orders, and Mistoffelees spends a moment rubbing his arm before holding out both paws in front of either shoulder, mouth flat and brows furrowed.
Tugger responds only by tossing the ball at him, and when Mistoffelees instinctively bats it away from his face, Tugger dives to the side and bats it back. Mistoffelees prances backwards and smacks the ball mostly upwards, and Tugger hops forward to catch it between his hands before it hits the floor.
“That’s ball,” he says.
Mistoffelees pauses for another moment. “What’s the point?”
“You make sure the ball doesn’t hit the ground.”
Mistoffelees blinks at him. “If the–” And there he goes again, halting mid-sentence with his mouth open. “–point is to keep the ball off the ground, then w-why don’t you just… hold it?”
Tugger looks down at the ball in his hands, then up at Mistoffelees. “That’s not fun.”
“But you said that was the point,” Mistoffelees argues. Munk smiles a little. Little Mistoffelees here seems to be rather literally-minded. A bit like a tiny version of his uncle, so serious all the time.
“The point is to have fun…” Tugger figures, scrunching one eye shut in thought. “…And the second point is to keep it off the ground.”
“Oh.” Mistoffelees seems to accept that simple argument. “Okay.”
Apparently satisfied as well, Tugger lifts the ball a little. “You ready?”
Mistoffelees just nods and raises his paws.
Munk spends several minutes just sitting there and watching the two kittens play together. He’s admittedly taken aback at how quickly Tugger had peeled Mistoffelees out of his shell. He’s also surprised by how quickly Mistoffelees had adjusted to playing with the kitten he’d been so repulsed by only a few minutes earlier. The two happily chirp and yell as they bat the ball back and forth, hopping and darting this way and that to keep it in the air.
They only stop when a group of other kittens come trotting over. Munk hadn’t noticed the boys hanging about earlier (though he had been a little panic-blind when searching for Mistoffelees) so he assumes they’ve come over from the kittens’ den. Jenny’s hosting her bi-monthly dancing lessons tonight, so they’re probably gathering in wait for her to show up. It also seems like they’re looking for a way to entertain themselves while they wait.
“Can we play?” one of the boys calls over as the group nears. Mistoffelees startles at the sound (and at the seemingly too-close group of kittens) and the ball sails past his head, rolling to a stop not far from Munk’s feet.
Tugger stops when he sees the cluster as well, though he looks more annoyed than startled. “No,” is his only answer.
They have a small group of kittens staying at the junkyard right now due to a conflict between two local colonies. It’s a… service they’ve always provided, as it’s only a touch harder to keep track of ten kittens than two, and the colony cats always appreciate it. But they have a few little ones around Tugger’s age in the Yard for the next few weeks until heat season, and Tugger seems to not like a single one of them. And his opinion of the regulars who’re always sent to Jenny’s lessons by their colonies isn’t much higher.
Alonzo, on the other hand, has made quite a few friends, and is among the group near the back. “You don’t want to play with Tugger anyways,” he says to the other boys. “He’s annoying.”
“It doesn’t matter if they want to play with me,” Tugger responds in that unshakable manner of his, though Mistoffelees looks like he may die of fright. “They can’t.”
“Oh, come on, Tugger,” one of the boys says. “It’s more fun with more cats.”
“I don’t care.”
“There’s only one ball,” another adds. “You have to share.”
“I don’t.”
“Where is it?” one of them prompts, causing several heads to turn as they all start to look around for the ball, Tugger included. Munk, knowing perfectly well whoever gets their hands on the bloody thing is going to try and keep it –despite the fact that Tugger and Mistoffelees did in fact have it first– leans forward to grab the ball near his feet and return it to its proper owners.
But the ball isn’t there. Munk blinks, then looks both left and right of the tire.
“Where did it go?” one of the kittens chirps.
“I saw it a second ago.”
Munk can only assume the ball rolled a little after he took his eyes off of it, though it shouldn’t have gone far on flat concrete… He’s distracted from his own search when he spots Mistoffelees move out of the corner of his eye.
“It was just here!”
The little tuxedo prances sideways towards Tugger, who’s spinning in a rapid circle trying to locate the toy, and hands something to him as he eyes the other tomkittens warily.
The ball. Mistoffelees has the ball.
“You have it, Misto!” Tugger chirps, accepting the red ball when Mistoffelees eagerly passes it over. “Why didn’t you say?”
Munk looks between the spot he’d last seen the ball, then up at the group of kittens. They’re not far, but he’s certain he’d have seen Mistoffelees scamper over here and back if he’d done so, despite how little the kitten is. Maybe he wouldn’t notice a red ball rolling a pace or two away, but he would have spotted Misto coming this way and then back again, especially when he’d looked so petrified only a moment ago.
He couldn’t have come here. He couldn’t have picked up the ball himself.
So that– that must be magic.
His mother had mentioned Mistoffelees was magic, but she hadn’t said anything of his abilities, and Munk had expected something akin to the psychic twins or his own father– some… passive or obscure ability that would have no effect on Mistoffelees’s night-to-night life.
But moving objects around like that…
That reminds Munk of Macavity.
Munk rubs his paws together nervously, watching the larger group of boys mutter and sigh in defeat while Tugger grins triumphantly at them all.
They’re going to have to be careful with him. No one is going to like a kitten with similar abilities to Macavity of all cats hanging around the Yard; it’s been a time since Macavity’s… departure, and everyone is still on edge because of it. Of course they are. Munk doesn’t blame them; he’s heard all of the rumors about what his older brother is getting up to lately.
And distrustful colony cats aren’t the only reason they’ll have to be careful. Munk has been– well, he’s been trying–
It’s hard to think about. But he can’t help but wonder… if they’d done something wrong with Macavity. His brother had never been a gentle touch. He’d never been a tender soul. He’d always had anger to spare, and Munkustrap had watched him lie his way out of plenty of scraps without so much of a twitch of the eye. But he’d never even thought…
Maybe Macavity just… snapped. Snapped under the pressure placed upon him as Deuteronomy’s heir, snapped under the expectations placed upon him as the leader of the tribe. Or maybe he was always rotten deep down, carefully hiding his true self under a mask of charm and playful impishness.
Munk doesn’t know what would be worse. To think that they’d –no matter how unknowingly and no matter how unintentionally– inflicted such a fate on Macavity is unbearable.
But the alternative…
His brother was never the most winsome cat in the Yard. But Munkustrap thought he’d known him.
Potentially not.
But whatever Macavity is and whatever Macavity was, Munk knows for a fact that what he’s looking at right now is just a kitten. Shy and serious and sweet. Innocent and easily frightened. That’s all.
There are plenty of elements in London who would love to have a magical cat with such abilities under their thumb. Who knows what else the little scamp can do, who knows what he’ll grow to be able to do, and moving static objects around would frankly be enough for many.
But no one’s gonna hurt him, Munk assures himself. He watches the boys scatter when Jenny shows up in the clearing, singing her hellos to the group. The same mistakes won’t be repeated. He’ll make sure of it.
“Hello, my dears!” Jenny greets the posse of less-than-enthusiastic looking kittens as she slows before them. “Are we ready to head out?”
Tugger sighs not far from where Munk’s sitting, ears flattening and tail drooping in sync. He hates dance lessons. Mistoffelees stands at his side, watching the other kittens file in around Jenny with his lips pressed together. He doesn’t ask what’s happening, though he certainly doesn’t look like he understands the proceedings; Munk has no clue why he would. Jenny counts off heads around her, fingers curling into her palm when she comes up one short– Tugger is still standing next to Mistoffelees, clutching the ball.
“Tugger!” she calls when she notices him standing there. “Put that thing away and come along.” Her gaze falls on Mistoffelees next, and she opens her mouth, brightening somewhat.
Munk beats her to the punch. “Mistoffelees,” he calls, and Tugger, Mistoffelees, and Jenny all look over at him. “I need to talk to you really quick,” he says, making sure he sounds lively enough that the other kittens won’t think he’s in trouble. Despite his efforts, Mistoffelees looks like he just heard his death knell.
“Why?” Tugger asks, and Munk frowns at him, exasperated at his little audacity.
“That’s none of your business, Tugger. Go off with the others, I’ll see you later.”
Jenny fixes Munk with a look, then glances at Mistoffelees– she’d obviously wanted the little guy to join in on the lessons, but he can start next time, Munk figures. He hopes she won't be annoyed.
Tugger drops the ball and shuffles off, not before fixing Munk with a glare. This, at least, is one thing they’ve taught Tugger to accept with little fanfare. Though he does mutter as he joins Jenny’s group, “I hate dance lessons.”
“Dance lessons?” Mistoffelees repeats to himself, brows pinching together. Munk almost feels bad for keeping him: he looks as miserable about missing the lesson as Tugger does about having to attend it.
Jenny takes the group of kittens off to whatever dancing spot they’re going to terrorize tonight. Mistoffelees watches them go for a moment, then plods over to Munk so slowly he might not make it over by sunrise. Munk gets to his feet to save them both some time –and earn them both some privacy from the cats on the tire– and meets him halfway.
“Did I do s-s-something wrong?” Mistoffelees asks when Munk kneels before him.
“Wrong?” Munk echoes. “No, you didn’t do anything wrong. What makes you think that?”
Mistoffelees just shrugs, wrapping his arms around himself. He glances sideways at where the other kittens are filing out of the clearing, laughing and hollering to each other as they follow Jenny out. Munk follows his gaze and smiles.
“You’ll be able to go with them, next time.”
Mistoffelees straightens at this, brows popping up nearly to where tufts of fur fall over his forehead. “Really?”
“Yes. You’ll have to, actually. All junkyard kittens have to go to dancing lessons.”
Mistoffelees looks back at where the kittens have disappeared, then returns his gaze to Munk. “Can Vicky?”
“No, not yet. She’s a little young. Maybe in a few months or a year, though.”
“Oh,” Mistoffelees figures, only looking a little bummed.
“Do you like dancing?” Munk prompts. “You’re a ballet cat, right?”
“Uh-huh,” Mistoffelees says. He frowns, then quickly adds, “And… uh-huh.”
Munk smiles at the charmingly thorough answer. “Is your mother a ballet cat, too?”
“Yeah.”
“Did she teach you and Victoria?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Jenny told me you two were very good.”
Mistoffelees smiles a little before reaching up to scratch behind his ear. Munk watches him for a moment, then shifts on his knees, settling a little.
“Can I ask you something, Mistoffelees?”
The smile falls off of Mistoffelees’s face so abruptly it’s like it was never there in the first place. He nods, once, tightly.
“How did you move that ball?”
The poor little guy visibly shrinks before Munk’s even finished speaking, curling around the arms he’s wrapped around his torso. He looks back at the ball, which is sitting where Tugger dropped it when he left, then back at Munk, lips pressed together and eyes wide. “I–” he starts, before taking a shaky breath. “I– I– I–”
“It’s alright,” Munk cuts him off. This is the most he’s heard Mistoffelees speak in the entire time he’s been here, and he’s thinking the little guy has a bit of a stutter. That must be why he was pausing so strangely earlier; he’d been nervous, and that had exacerbated it. But Mistoffelees isn’t the first kitten Munk’s met that stuttered a little; they always grow out of it, so he’s not concerned. “Like I said, you’re not in trouble. I’m just curious. Can you do it again?”
“No.”
“It’s alright, Mistoffelees,” Munk starts to repeat, but a shake of the head from Mistoffelees stops him.
“I can’t,” he insists, “because you’re l-looking at it.”
Munk pauses. “The… ball?”
Mistoffelees nods. He twists back to look at the ball, then steps sideways so he’s blocking Munk’s view of it. Un-hugging himself, he twists both hands behind his back; when he returns them to his front, he has the ball balanced in one palm. Munk opens his paws when Mistoffelees holds it out to him, then leans sideways to glance at the empty concrete where the rubber ball had just been lying.
That’s… fascinating. Macavity had never had that kind of limitation. Though he’d levitated things, not… teleported them.
“Is it hard for you to do that?” Munk asks, thoughtful.
“No.”
“Can you move anything bigger?”
“…No,” Mistoffelees says slowly. “Not really.”
“And how far can you do it?”
Mistoffelees thinks about this question for a while, then steps forward and reaches for the top of Munk’s head. Munk’s ear twitches when he feels Misto touch it briefly, but doesn’t think to comment when the kitten swiftly steps back, a flash of gold clasped in his palm.
Munk takes the shiny coin when Mistoffelees hands it to him, balancing it in the palm of his other hand. “Where did you get this from?”
Mistoffelees just shrugs. “I dunno. Somewhere.”
Certainly not from within the junkyard, something this new-looking. Who knows how far his limits are. And he apparently doesn’t need to know where something is to pull it in, either.
“I… see.”
“Am I in tr-trouble?” Mistoffelees asks when Munk doesn’t reply right away.
“Are you–” Munk starts, taken aback by the same question rearing its head again. “No, Mistoffelees, you’re not in trouble. Why do you think you’re in trouble?”
“I don’t kn-n-now.”
“Did I say something to make you think you’re in trouble?”
“…No.”
“Did you… break some rule without telling anyone?”
“No!”
“Then why do you think you’re in trouble?”
“I… don’t know.”
Impatient, but reminding himself that Mistoffelees isn’t used to the company of cats that aren’t his mother or sister, Munk gentles his voice. “If you’re ever in trouble, Misto, you’ll know, alright?”
Mistoffelees scratches his arm at that, ears flat, and Munk belatedly realizes he’d called the kitten by that nickname Tugger was using earlier.
“Do you like being called that?” Munk asks. When Mistoffelees looks up, he clarifies, “Misto?”
Mistoffelees just shrugs. “Tugger was calling me that.” He frowns, and adds, “The ‘toh’ sound isn’t–” Stilling for a moment, Mistoffelees leans forward onto his toes while his brow furrows. “–even in Mistoffelees.”
“…What?”
Mistoffelees looks a little stricken by his confusion. “Mist-AW-fell-ees. Mist-OH. It’s not the same sound,” he explains quickly.
“That’s fine,” Munk says. “Sometimes nicknames have different sounds than our actual names do. I have a friend named Adelia– you’ve met her, she had your breakfast this morning. When we were kittens, everyone called her Bee instead of Dee, because bees were always chasing her in the summer.”
Mistoffelees twists to look at where Adelia had been standing by the TSE earlier. “Were you in the s-same colony?” he asks as he looks back to Munk.
“Colony?” Munk echoes. “No, I was never in a colony. We were both raised here, in the junkyard, like you’ll be now.”
“…Oh,” Mistoffelees says shortly.
“You… knew you’re staying here, right?” Munk prompts, and Misto nods.
“Yes. Mother said.”
He doesn’t sound confident about that, though, and Munk spends a moment analyzing his nervous expression. “And you knew you’re staying here forever, yes?”
Misto scratches behind his ear at that additional inquiry, grimacing. “Um…was I s-s-su-sup-posed to?”
“Only if she told you.” Munk pauses, then continues, “She said she wanted you two to be raised here. Regardless of what’s… going on with her.”
Misto considers this for a moment. “Okay,” he eventually says.
“Okay,” Munk echoes. “Do you have any other questions?” Misto shakes his head so rapidly that Munk is pretty sure he’s lying, and he opens up his mouth to ask if Misto is sure about that, but Victoria comes trotting up before he can do so, apparently having woken from her nap.
She says nothing when she comes up to her brother’s side, rubbing her cheek briefly against his thigh before pushing to her two paws beside him. “Hi, Vicky,” Misto greets limply, looking down at his sister.
Victoria looks between Munk and Misto several times before she eventually tilts her chin that much further up at her brother and asks, in a voice even tinier and higher-pitched than Misto’s, “Dance?”
“Oh,” Misto says, apparently able to interpret that. “Yeah, sure, Vicky.” He looks over at Munk. “Can I go?”
“Go where?” Munk asks.
“The kittens’ den,” Misto elaborates, and Munk nods before he’s even finished.
“Yeah, of course.” Misto takes his sister’s hand, and Munk makes sure to add, “You can ask me if you have any other questions, Misto,” as he pushes to his feet.
Misto only nods before leading Victoria away by the hand.
Chapter Text
Mistoffelees looks up at the golden queen who’d handed him his breakfast.
“Can I speak to my mother?” he asks, clutching the piece of jerky she’d given him between two paws. He’d practiced saying it before she came, and he’s sure to speak slowly, so every single word comes out the right way.
The queen –Jelly, he’s pretty sure her name is– pauses at this question, the smile falling off of her face. Mistoffelees isn’t sure what that means. He’s never spoken to her before, so he’s not sure if she’s surprised to hear him speak or is considering what he said. She hands the other piece of jerky to Victoria, who immediately sticks the chunk of meat in her mouth and gnaws at it while she stares between them.
“Your mother is very ill,” Jelly starts slowly.
“I know,” Mistoffelees tells her. “I need to a–” he sticks a bit there, and he tries not to cringe, “–ask her something.”
“I can answer any of your questions, little Mistoffelees,” she says, seemingly not noticing the slip. “Or Munkustrap, or Jenny.”
“It’s a question f-for her,” Mistoffelees insists.
“Would you like me to pass it along?”
“No. I need to–” He starts to stick again, so he just drops the sentence there. That was enough to get his point across anyways,
Jelly sighs and watches Mistoffelees for a moment. “What kind of question is it?”
He imagines Jelly doesn’t want a sickly cat to be bothered pointlessly, so, “The important kind,” he informs her.
She doesn’t look assured by that response though, and only stares at him a moment more, leaving him wondering if he said something wrong. “I can ask her if she’s feeling up to visitors,” she finally says, patting Victoria on the head. “I’ll be back in a moment, alright?”
Mistoffelees nods rapidly, watching her leave the kittens’ den with his meal in his hands.
Victoria pulls her own breakfast out of her mouth only long enough to ask, “Mama tonight?”
“I’m not sure, Vicky,” Mistoffelees tells her. “Even if, not for long. And they might only let me.”
He looks down at his little sister, watching her eat with a vigor he doesn’t even remotely feel. He thinks he may get sick, actually. He’s felt that way ever since his conversation with Munk last night. She wanted you two to be raised here. Regardless of what’s… going on with her.
“Do you like it here, Vicky?”
Victoria looks up at him with her big blue eyes, only just beginning to turn yellow now that she’s old enough for solids, and stops gnawing on the jerky again. “Yeah. Lots of nice cats. Lots of toys. No mean people.”
Mistoffelees rubs his shoulder at that response. She keeps talking about all the nice cats here. Misto supposes Munk and Jenny are nice. Everyone else he’s not really sure about. No one hisses or tries to fight, he guesses. And no one’s yelled at him. Yet.
Jelly returns while he’s thinking. “You can come talk to your mother for a moment, Mistoffelees.”
Mistoffelees hops to his feet, still clutching his jerky.
“But only a moment,” she adds sternly, stepping to the side so he can join her. “She’s very tired.”
“Okay,” Mistoffelees says, then turns on his heels to wave at Victoria. “I’ll be right back!”
“Kiss,” Vicky responds. “For mama.”
Jelly leads Mistoffelees to the den that Mother is staying in, far away from the clearing and the kittens’ den, and tucked within an old leather couch. Just up the path from the den, a couple of younger queens are lugging a bucket of water, heading their way.
“Be quick, alright?” Jelly tells him, pausing before the ripped hole in the couch’s upholstery. Mistoffelees nods tightly and scurries forward, ducking within the den’s entrance as quietly as he can.
It takes his eyes a moment to adjust to the darkness of the den once he’s inside, but either way his mother’s white fur practically glows in the dark, bright even cut off from the light of the moon. And Mistoffelees can hear her rasping breathing as he circles around one of the couch’s springs and makes his way to her side.
“Mistoffelees,” Mother croaks when he sits beside her shoulder. She’s curled up on her side, head pillowed on her arm. Only a few nights ago, she’d sat up when he and Victoria had entered the den; this time she lays still, smiling up at him. “What’s wrong?”
Mistoffelees sniffs, interlocking his fingers in his lap and staring down at them. “Munkustrap told me that me and Vi-victoria are staying here forever,” he tells her eventually, fiddling with his hands. “Which I don’t get, because you always– always say you hate colonies. And… he didn’t…” He peers up at her now frowning face. “He didn’t say whether you’d be staying.”
Mother smiles then, but it’s a smile that looks wrong, though Mistoffelees isn’t sure why. “So smart,” she says, voice rasping so hard he barely understands. She has to take another rattling breath before she adds, “Nothing… gets past my… Mistoffelees.”
“You’re not– not leaving, are you?” Mistoffelees asks, unable to keep his voice from cracking.
Mother gestures at him to lie down beside her, which Mistoffelees does, folding his hands under his cheek. “I’ll tell you… the truth, Mistoffelees.” She breathes, once, and then twice, before continuing. “I have to go away.”
“Where?”
“A place for old and sick cats. Not someplace for kittens.”
Mistoffelees considers this for a moment, sniffling. He removes one hand from under his head to rub at his eye. “Can you come visit?”
“No.” Her eyes flutter shut for a moment. “It’s not a place you… return from.”
“So you’re leaving forever?” Mistoffelees demands, louder than he’d intended to.
“I don’t want to,” she tells him, smiling wrongly again. “But I can’t stay. Too sick.”
“Then get better,” Mistoffelees pleads, sitting up with his palms flat on the wooden frame of the couch below them. He purses his lips and sniffs again, looking sideways as tears start to slide down his cheeks. “I don’t– Please– I– I– I hate it here, mom. There’s so many– many p-people,” he tries to explain calmly, but his breaths come too fast and the words too wrong, and he hiccups as he keens. “And– and– and they all know things I don’t, and I w-want to go home!”
“You’ll grow to like it, Mistoffelees,” she insists, lifting a shaky hand to wipe at his cheek. He grips her wrist with both hands, hugging her arm to his chest because that’s all he can get, sobbing as she continues. “The cats here… are going to take care… of you and Victoria. You can… ask them… any questions you have–” She coughs, a dry wracking sound that makes Mistoffelees jolt with another round of tears, guilty now as well as abandoned. “And I’m sure… you’ll make… friends…”
“I don’t want to,” Mistoffelees wails. “Please, please, please–”
“I can’t,” Mother says at a near whisper, before shifting like she’s going to try and sit up, though she descends into another fit of coughing. Mistoffelees watches her, crying harder at the terrifying way she scarcely seems to be able to breathe between each hacking gasp.
Jelly comes storming into the den before Mistoffelees can even think to go get her, picking Mistoffelees up under the arms and pulling him away from his mother without a word. Mother’s arm slips from his grip, and she immediately presses it to the wooden floor to prop herself up.
“Mom–” Mistoffelees starts, fumbling in the entrance of the den and watching Jelly crouch before his mother, speaking to her in soothing tones as she struggles to breathe. He doesn’t get any further before he’s picked up again and pulled into the moonlight, the sight of his mother being whisked away from him just like that.
It’s one of the two queens who’d been carrying that water bucket, and he’s plunked down onto the concrete right next to it while one of the girls shuffles inside the den after Jelly, eyes wide.
“I hurt her!” Mistoffelees wails, sobbing so hard he feels like his lungs might try to squeeze their way up his throat.
“It’s alright,” the other one tries to comfort him, sitting down at his side. “She’ll be fine, little one, she just pushed herself too hard. She’ll be fine in a moment; you didn’t hurt her–”
Her efforts are for nothing. Mistoffelees cries for a long while.
As Munk understands it, Victoria and Mistoffelees spend a couple nights at Jelly’s den. Apparently Viviette had spoken to her kittens about her no doubt imminent departure– first Mistoffelees, then Victoria a couple hours later, and neither kitten had apparently taken it well, per say, although Mistoffelees in particular had been especially despondent.
Jelly had assured him that she’d look after the two little ones while they adjusted. Though watching the pair shuffling into the clearing three nights since he’d last seen either of them, he thinks the adjustment that happened might’ve been somewhat asymmetrical.
Victoria trots alongside her brother with the same wide-eyed caution that she’d beheld the clearing with for the past week, tense with nerves but otherwise nearly prancing with curiosity. Mistoffelees, on the other hand, looks like he may slump to the ground and never get up again any step now, with ears flat against his skull, tail dragging on the ground, and gaze fixed on his feet.
Little Mistoffelees sent his mother into a bit of a coughing fit, Jelly had said. He had been crying, and she’d strained herself trying to comfort him.
He might feel guilty. Or perhaps he’s just adjusting poorly. Most cats lose their mothers as kittens– not usually to anything as tragic as an illness, but instead to something much more mundane and unremarkable: being given up.
Most queens have little patience for single-handed motherhood. Oftentimes queens will kick their kittens out of their sleeping spaces as soon as they’ve weaned, leaving their offspring to be raised by their colonies as a whole as soon as they’re independent enough to survive without the constant care of their mothers. And that’s the kindest scenario. It’s not uncommon for colonies to use newly-weaned kittens as bargaining chips during their annual territory negotiations, nor is it strange for kittens to be left behind for humans to find and take at their leisure. Some bring their kittens here, which is how most members of the inner tribe end up in the Yard.
But most of the time when that happens, it happens when the kitten has just weaned. Barely old enough to understand what’s happening, and almost certainly too young to remember much of the mother who’d left them behind. Munk doesn’t remember much of anything about his mother. Mistoffelees though, is older: nearly Tugger’s age. He has neither the innocence nor the pliancy to brush over what he’s being forced to give up.
“What’s wrong with him?”
Munkustrap startles when a voice sounds near his ear, and twists to look over at little Alonzo sitting on the crate next to his head.
“Sorry,” the spotted kitten says when Munk jolts.
“No, it’s fine, Alonzo.” Munk turns back to the clearing. “Do you mean Mistoffelees?”
“Uh-huh.”
Munk remains silent for a moment, watching Mistoffelees plunk himself down at the base of the grating next to his sister. Victoria grips her toes and watches the clearing with wide eyes, but Misto just stretches his legs out and stares at his knees, arms wrapped around his torso.
“His mother is ill,” Munk explains. “She won’t be around for much longer.”
“Oh.”
Alonzo, unlike Mistoffelees and Victoria, hails from a large family. His mother was from a batch of triplets, and those triplets had a pair of half-siblings– twin siblings, specifically. And as Munk understands it every sibling in that bunch has been keeping themselves perfectly busy, so Alonzo has a veritable army of cousins. Alonzo himself had been given to the junkyard because his colony had too many kittens to care for. Munk has never asked, but he thinks the little guy may have some issues about being wanted. He is constantly trying hard to be useful.
So while Alonzo might not understand losing one’s mother the way Mistoffelees has –he sees her at least once a year for heat season– he may get what being unwillingly separated from one’s entire life and family is like.
“He just probably needs time,” Munk says.
Sometimes Munk swears Tugger can tell what he’s thinking. Because as soon as those words are out of his mouth, he sees his little brother’s head pop out of a group of adult cats on the TSE, eyes on Misto across the clearing.
“Dammit,” Munk mutters, pushing off of the crates when Tugger jumps down from the TSE. “Sorry Alonzo, I have to go stop Tugger from harassing Mistoffelees.”
“I can help,” Alonzo says, hopping down to the concrete as well. And before Munk can even open his mouth to assure him that he doesn’t have to, Alonzo tears away on all four paws, making a beeline for Tugger.
Munk watches, paws limp in front of him, as Alonzo barrels full-body into Tugger, sending the two kittens rolling. He grimaces in preparation to break up a fight, but Alonzo pops up to his paws as soon as they stop whirling across the concrete, and cheerily barks something at Tugger, who’s flopped onto his back.
Whatever he’d said exactly, Munk has to assume some kind of challenge had been made, because after exchanging a few words, Alonzo zooms off and Tugger scampers behind him– a few of the other nearby boys falling in behind them when they see some excitement is blooming.
Well. That takes care of that, he supposes.
Hesitant at first, Munk decides to use his newfound freedom to go talk to the ballet kittens. He’ll admit readily he has absolutely no clue what to say to a kitten suffering due to such specific circumstances, but he thinks saying anything would be helpful in its own way. Probably. He’d promised their mother he’d love these kittens, and considering the incident Jelly mentioned between her and Mistoffelees, she clearly cannot comfort them and clearly wants to.
So as Munk crosses over to the two kittens, he’s feeling both very eager and very out of his depth. Story of his life, at this rate.
Victoria looks up at him when he sits down beside Mistoffelees, but Misto’s ears only twitch. “Hi, you two,” he greets the duo.
Victoria looks over at Misto, but the elder kitten doesn’t react to the greeting. She shuffles a bit closer into her brother’s side, peering around him at Munk with big eyes. And this could be admittedly going better.
While Munk is debating the merits of just barreling on without the acknowledgement of either kitten, Victoria says something in her little voice, almost too quiet for Munk to hear: “Toffees.”
It comes out as almost a whine, and Munk spends a split second uncertain as to what that even means –does she want… toffee? As in the human treat?– until Misto heaves a slow sigh and shifts to look over at Munk.
“Yes?” Mistoffelees prompts, more impatient than anything else. And Munk belatedly realizes that ‘Toffees’ is little Victoria’s pronunciation of her brother’s name.
“I… heard that you two had an upsetting talk with your mother the other night,” Munk starts. “I wanted to tell you I’m sorry. And… if you two need or want anything, you can ask me.”
Mistoffelees accepts this with only a sniff, though Victoria’s ears prick as she leans further out from her brother’s shadow, a hand on his thigh. “Chalk?” she asks with wide eyes, and a laugh is startled out of Munk at such an unexpectedly simple request.
“I– yes, I can grab you some chalk. You can ask for chalk whenever you like, Victoria, we always have some.”
“Thank you,” Mistoffelees says while Munk is pushing to his feet, voice soft and inflectionless, and Victoria looks over at him before smiling at Munk.
“Dank you,” she echoes cheerily, flashing her little fangs at him. She really is a cutie.
When Munk returns a moment later with a small stick of chalk for Victoria, he sits down again and watches Mistoffelees as his sister happily sets out to start drawing circles on the concrete.
“How are you feeling, Mistoffelees?” Munk asks quietly, trying not to earn the smaller kitten’s attention.
“Bad,” Misto responds, an answer that would be charming in its simplicity if it weren’t for the context.
“Do you want to talk about how you feel?” Munk remembers being advised to use that line with Tugger in the past. Though he’d never needed to use it much– the trick with Tugger is getting him to stop talking about how he feels.
“No,” is his only response.
“It might make you feel better.”
“Don– don– don’t think so.”
“Well…” Munk searches for words a moment. “If you change your mind, you can come talk to me whenever you like.” He crosses his legs and leans back against the metal pole of the grating behind him, intent on just sitting here with poor little Misto for a while. But he and Mistoffelees are only sitting there in silence for a couple moments before the kitten pushes up onto his knees.
Munk looks over at him, convinced that the little guy is going to shuffle off to be sad somewhere by himself, but Mistoffelees surprises him by only crawling sideways into Munk’s lap, dropping his head against his chest with a little huff. Munk lifts his hands, surprised, before settling them atop his knees.
Misto turns his head to conk his forehead against Munk’s sternum, a gesture that almost seems frustrated. “You don’t smell like her,” he mutters softly.
Munk has never felt so insecure about not smelling like a queen in his life.
“You…” he starts, voice soft. “You can sit with Jenny or Jelly or one of the queens if that would make you feel better.”
Mistoffelees doesn’t reply to that, only sighing a final time before slumping against Munk’s chest even further, curling himself up into a ball.
~
Mistoffelees looks at least a little livelier the next moonrise. He hadn’t moved from Munk’s lap last night until Jenny had come by with breakfast and offered to take the two siblings out to one of the dancing spots for a one-on-one dance lesson, and Munk hadn’t seen either of them for the rest of that night.
Tonight is Munk’s turn to come up with breakfast for the kittens, so he gets up early to take Tugger out to his human’s place and retrieve some of the chicken his elderly human always has. It’s not a terribly long task; as a matter of fact sometimes handing out the portions to the kittens can take just as long as acquiring the portions themselves. Munk has to be sure to count off each kitten as he serves them, both to make sure no one is forgotten and to make sure no one squeezes back in for seconds.
And it’s a bit harder to bend down with Tugger’s legs wrapped around his neck, dangling upside down behind his back, but Tugger’s inconvenienced him by far worse throughout the years, and not while being so quiet as well, so Munk can’t complain.
“You forgot Misto and his sister,” Tugger tells Munk once Alonzo has trotted off with his share.
“I did not,” Munk replies. “I just haven’t seen them. Do you see them?”
“No,” Tugger responds. “Try spinning.”
Munk considers telling him no for a second, then sighs and does as bid, shuffling in a circle on tiptoe; certainly too fast to go scanning for cats, but fast enough to make Tugger laugh.
Mid-spin Tugger’s legs untwist from around his neck, and Munk only has the time to think oh fuck, I dropped him, before Tugger pops up in front of him, pushing up from all fours.
“Misto!” he calls, and Munk doesn’t have the presence of mind after that brief heart attack to stop Tugger before he starts bounding off towards the nearby entrance where a pair of kittens are shuffling through.
“Tugger!” Munk complains, following. Misto’s tail isn’t dragging on the concrete this time at least, but he still doesn’t exactly look chipper, and probably isn’t up for being harassed into playing a game.
“Hi!” Tugger crows as he nearly skids past Misto, who only flinches away from him in greeting. “You’ve been gone for forever, I was so bored, do you want to play a game?”
Tugger doesn’t try to steamroll him this time at least, proving that either he can learn lessons or he was listening when Munk told him that Mistoffelees has been gone lately because he’s been too sad to play.
Munk stops before the trio of kittens, passing Victoria’s breakfast to her as he addresses Tugger. “He probably doesn’t want to play, Tugger. Leave him be.”
Tugger frowns up at him. “I didn’t ask you if he wants to play, Munk.”
“Not hungry,” Mistoffelees says when Munk goes to pass him his share, which… is concerning.
“Do you wanna play then?” Tugger asks, making an offended noise when Munk pushes him away so he can crouch before the tuxedo kitten.
“Have you eaten already?” Misto shakes his head. “Do you feel sick?”
“No.”
Well… if he doesn’t want it, short of shoving the chicken down his throat, there’s nothing to do about that. “Are you sure you’re not hungry?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Munk– you’re distracting him–” Tugger complains, always so offended when the spotlight isn’t solely on him. He squeezes between them, climbing atop Munk’s thighs and blocking his view of Mistoffelees with his big head. “Do you wanna play ball?”
“No,” Misto says.
Tugger is not deterred by this. “Do you wanna do chalk?”
“No.”
“Do you wanna play chase?”
“No.”
“Do you wanna–”
“Tugger, I told you, he doesn’t want to play.” When Tugger twists to look back at Munk, clearly offended at the very implication, Munk sighs and scruffs his brother, picking him up off of his lap.
“Hey–” Tugger complains, flailing until Munk puts him down on the concrete and stands.
“Maybe you two can sit together though, if Misto doesn’t mind. I have some boxes I need to rip up, Tugger; you can help me with that.”
“Why can’t you ever rip boxes up yourself?” Tugger asks.
Because it entertains you, hellspawn. “Why don’t you ask Misto if he wants to sit with you?”
Tugger frowns at Munk a moment more, then turns to Misto. “Do you wanna sit with me?”
Misto sighs, a somewhat hilariously relatable sound when it comes to putting up with Tugger. “Sure.”
Tugger grins, clearly proud of himself. As if he’d single-handedly convinced Mistoffelees to spend time with him and Munk didn’t just carefully find a compromise that would mostly satisfy both kittens. Tugger trots forwards and actually nuzzles Misto then, which Munk watches with muted disbelief that only doubles when Misto squirms in discomfort under the gesture, and lifts his hands to shove Tugger bodily off of him.
Tugger lands on his rump before Misto, staring up at the other kitten in wide-eyed shock. Munk can imagine. Tugger, ever since Munk met him, without fail, always acts like his whiskers are being pulled out whenever anyone tries to nuzzle him. He hates it. Munk’s never seen him even try to nuzzle another cat before. It must be bizarre for him to be on the other side of that dynamic.
It’s also not common for other cats to reject Tugger, as beloved as he is as Deuteronomy’s youngest son. At least when it comes to cats Tugger wants to be friendly with –mutually antagonistic relationships like what he has with Alonzo aside– Munk’s little brother usually gets all the attention and affection he could want from the junkyard, on precisely his own terms. This must be new for him.
Tugger recovers from his shock nearly instantaneously though, popping back up to his feet with that same grin on his face. “Where do you wanna sit?” he asks, trotting off and then hopping back towards Misto when he sees the other kitten isn’t following him. “We can sit under the TSE, or by the crates, or in front of the grating…”
He chatters off into the distance, Misto mutedly following behind him. Munk is left with Victoria, who’d watched that entire conversation in silence while shoving her share of the chicken in her mouth.
“Chalk?” she asks when Munk looks down at her, and Munk smiles.
“Yeah, sure,” he says. “I’ll get you some chalk.”
~
Viviette goes that next night. Apparently Jelly had woken the two kittens in the middle of the day so they could see their mother one last time, and as a result the pair aren’t in the clearing until nearly moonhigh: either catching up on the sleep they missed or too upset to join the other kittens in the clearing. Neither looks particularly worse than they had the nights before when they do finally show their faces, though neither look exactly chipper, either.
Tugger has apparently figured out that he is allowed to sit next to Mistoffelees without interception from nearby adults as long as he doesn’t touch him and stays mostly silent, so Munk spends most of his night occasionally glancing over at the TSE and eyeing the two boys sitting in its shadow. Nearly every time he looks, Misto is sitting with his gaze fixed on his lap, while Tugger is sprawled out in one position or another, twisted so he can stare at Misto. Presumably in silence.
Munk has no idea what it is about little Mistoffelees that’s bloody well enraptured Tugger so much. He’d suppose it was the magic, but as far as he’s aware Tugger has yet to bring it up, and might’ve even forgotten about it. And perhaps it was having a kitten around that’s his own age to play with, but there he is, sitting around without even suggesting playing. Munk’s never seen Tugger act like this around anyone before, and it honestly kind of baffles him.
He's always had to tell himself that Tugger just isn’t an affectionate cat. He is both brutally honest and fiercely independent, traits that endear him to cats that aren’t close to him and exasperates those that are. He also seems to be under the impression that he is the most important and interesting person in London, so he rarely considers the feelings of those around him. He just about never puts up with anything if he doesn’t want to, and on the occasions he does, he makes it very clear that he’s displeased with the situation.
And Munk… is fine with that. Is mostly fine with that. Tries to only pray that Tugger grows out of it on rare occasions. Macavity was never affectionate, either. Of all the countless kittens his father has sired through the ages, Munk got stuck with the two most difficult to get along with, he’s pretty sure.
Although Tugger, unlike Macavity, is not difficult to love despite how much of a scamp he is, and despite Munk’s constant exasperation with his little brother and his out-of-proportion ego, he does love him. His confidence that Tugger loves him back… is middling. His confidence that Tugger loves just about anyone is middling. He’s just not affectionate. The alternative is perhaps uncharitable to think.
But, this…
Well.
It’s Jenny’s turn to feed the kittens before sunrise, so when she comes skipping into the clearing with the basket they always use for the kittens’ meals under her arm, Munk stops her in front of the grating.
“Mistoffelees has barely been eating,” he tells her, twisting to look back at the two boys under the TSE. “He keeps saying he’s not hungry.”
“Poor thing,” she remarks, popping a hip as she looks over at the kittens. “Jelly said he’s been in poor spirits for nights. Victoria seems to have already bounced back.”
Munk turns to look at Victoria, sitting by the crates and watching Alonzo and a couple other boys play with a hoop, sitting in the lap of one of the queens there.
“I think she’s just too young to understand,” Munk says.
“Mmm,” Jenny agrees. Probably. He thinks that was agreement. “Let me see what I can do about little Mistoffelees’s appetite. Gus had a line he’d use on us kittens when we were small that just might do the trick.”
Munk follows behind when Jenny crosses over to the pair. Tugger perks up at the sight of her –or most likely at the sight of the basket on her arm– and pushes up to his knees while Misto just watches out of the corner of his eye.
“Is it fish tonight?” Tugger asks when Jenny stops before them. Munk leans against a nearby junk pile to watch.
“No,” Jenny replies, no-nonsense. “It’s jerky.”
Tugger frowns when he’s handed his piece, like he’s being slighted by free food being personally delivered right to him. “Can we have fish tomorrow?”
“No,” Jenny repeats.
“How about cheese?”
“That’s a snack, not a meal. And no. You can have whatever it is you’ll be given tomorrow.”
Tugger sticks his bottom lip out, settling on his knees, and Jenny rolls her eyes while she digs in her basket again.
“When you’re grown, Tugger, you can go out into the wild and hunt pheasants if you wish. For now, you should be grateful for what you’re given. Here, Mistoffelees.”
“Not hungry,” Misto says when he’s offered a piece of jerky, just as Munk had hoped he wouldn’t.
“Did you know dancing lessons are tomorrow night, Mistoffelees?” Jenny responds as she leans down to level herself a bit with the kitten, one hand braced on her knee. Mistoffelees visibly brightens, though his expression falls when she adds, “This upcoming one would’ve been your first. But I can’t allow a kitten with an empty stomach to dance. It just wouldn’t be proper.”
Mistoffelees snatches up the piece of jerky from Jenny’s hands so quickly Munk nearly misses it when he blinks. Meanwhile Tugger looks down at his own jerky with a thoughtful gaze. “If I don’t eat does that mean I don’t have to dance?”
“No,” Jenny tells him without amusement. “You’ll still have to dance no matter how hungry you are.”
Tugger responds to this by shoving his piece of jerky in his mouth.
“You don’t l-l-like to dance?” Misto asks Tugger, clutching his meal in both paws while Jenny turns and heads off, winking at Munk as she passes him. He smiles back, making a note to thank her later.
Tugger spends a moment gnawing on his piece of jerky, eyeing Misto with interest before he says, “Not how Jenny makes us.” When Misto keeps holding the jerky in his hands, Tugger points at it and says, “She’s going to check and make sure you ate that.”
Mistoffelees actually rips off a small piece of the jerky and pops it in his mouth, which Munk has never seen a kitten do when it comes to jerky. Gus always says that all the gnawing is good for the muscles in the jaw. Munk watches with amusement while Misto keeps breaking off little bite sized pieces, laying them out in a line along his bent knee before eating the last one.
“…How does she m-make you?” Misto asks after a moment, picking up another piece of jerky. “She had me and Victoria dance for her and it was- it was fun.”
“By yelling,” Tugger responds with his mouth full. “And poking. And more yelling.”
“She didn’t yell at us.”
“Probably because you’re new,” Tugger figures before swallowing. “All she ever does is yell at me.”
“That’s probably because you’re annoying,” Misto responds evenly, and Tugger straightens at the casual insult. Misto looks over, sees Tugger’s expression, and shrugs at him helplessly. “Well, you are.”
“I don’t think that’s it.”
Misto picks up his last piece of jerky. “Have you tried–” he tilts his head quickly down, a motion not unlike swallowing, before managing to continue, “–not being annoying to her?”
“No,” Tugger responds derisively. Munk’s honestly a bit surprised he has yet to comment on Misto’s stutter. At least as far as he’s heard. Maybe he should talk to Tugger about it. “She should try not yelling at me first. Besides, I don’t even need dancing lessons. I already know how to dance. Check this out.”
Tugger hops to his feet and performs a series of moves that Munk would be hesitant to even call freestyle dancing. It looks more like he’s trying to fight the air than anything else.
“Y-you look dumb,” Misto says when he’s done, with such disdainful sincerity that it makes Munk snort a little.
Tugger puts his hands on his hips, looking down at Misto. “Well, you dance then.”
Misto frowns at Tugger for a moment, and just when Munk is thinking it may be wise to intervene, he pops to his feet and trots up beside Tugger, stepping mechanically to the side to give himself room. With that, he slides into a perfect fourth position and does a pirouette, bowing low and straightening as his spin ends.
Jenny was right, he is very talented. Hell, even Tugger looks impressed. Munk’s pretty sure his little brother has never had much of any interest in ballet in the past, but he seems a little starstruck now, head tilted to the side and brows high.
“Alright,” Tugger says, smiling. “Maybe I did look a little dumb.”
Misto outright giggles at that, curling his shoulders and paws towards his chest. Just like it’s the first time Munk’s heard Tugger humble himself, it’s also the first time he’s heard Mistoffelees laugh, and some of the prickly concern he’d had for the despondent little guy eases.
Maybe he and Tugger really will be good for each other.
Chapter Text
“It’s a shame,” Bustopher says as he trots down the path to the clearing.
Following along, Munk struggles a bit to keep his chin tilted up so that Bustopher’s face stays in his field of vision and also watch where he’s putting his feet as they go. He’s always been far from small, but so has Bustopher, and the older tom is no longer the lithe adolescent cat that Munk remembers from his own kittenhood. He’s developed London connections in recent years, and it’s clear that he’s been eating well because of them in a way that would make any alleycat worth their salt feel jealous. Bustopher has bulk now. Munk feels a little short and scrappy in comparison.
“I’m pleased she took my advice,” Bustopher continues while Munk is trying not to trip and die. He luckily manages to step over a bump in the path without making a fool of himself, and behind them the two older kittens who are tugging along Bustopher’s little wagon chitter when the wagon thumps over the protrusion. “But I’d hoped she’d come to the junkyard as she was. Caring for two kittens all by herself, no colony, no mate, no humans… No wonder she got ill.”
Munk nods. “Jelly said it was probably stress and the long winter that got to her.” He glances sideways at Bustopher. “Did you know her well?”
“No,” Bustopher admits. “I only met her twice. My brother introduced me the first time, and the second was after his passing. That was when I told her about the junkyard.” He shakes his head. “She’d clearly had a head on her shoulders though, despite her poor taste in men. So many queens all but toss their kittens out of their dens as soon as they can walk, and there she was singlehandedly caring for both of hers. A woman of principle–she would have fit in well here.”
“She clearly cared about them very much,” Munk agrees.
“And how are the kittens?” Bustopher asks. They take a corner and briefly lose the wagon-hauling cats when the two have to nudge it through the tight bend.
“Mmm.” Munk rolls his shoulders, considering. “Victoria has just recently weaned. She’s too small to really understand what’s happened, I think. Jenny mentioned there were some tears from her a couple times, but despite us not having any kittens her age, she seems to be doing well. She’s shy, but she’s been coming out of her shell in the past couple weeks.”
“…And Mistoffelees?”
Munk thinks there might be a story behind that knowing tone. “He, well…” Munk trails off, trying to find delicate words. “I don’t think… he’s adjusting well. He’s often in poor spirits, and… sometimes I can tell he’s confused about something or other, but he never asks. He plays with Tugger most nights, but I have to peel them apart every once in a while, because Misto doesn’t have much tolerance for him sometimes.”
“I see.” Bustopher is silent for a moment. “And his magic?”
“Did you know what he can do?”
“His mother mentioned… moving objects around,” Bustopher admits.
“Yeah, I’ve… only seen him do it a couple times. He just moves toys sometimes, small things. He said he can only do it if no one is looking.” He shrugs. “I’ve told the others who look after the kittens so they know to keep an eye out for it. But otherwise we’re… trying to keep it quiet.”
“That seems wise,” Bustopher considers, and Munk does smile just a bit.
“Father is coming for this upcoming full moon,” he adds with some nerves, trotting up the path towards the clearing. “I’m hoping he may have some wisdom on how to handle Misto.” He pauses, swiping at the fur on his cheek. “Unless you have some advice, of course.”
Bustopher snorts, a noise that reminds Munk more of the gangly tuxedo he knew in his kittenhood than the dignified grown tom he’s standing next to now. “Children are not my area of expertise, let’s say.”
“They’re not mine, either,” Munk remarks with self-deprecating humor.
“I wouldn’t be surprised if Gus were to say the same,” Bustopher tells him. “I don’t believe kittens are a trial anyone gets truly adept at handling.”
“I can dream,” Munk sighs, passing under the entrance. He stops a few pawsteps within the semi-crowded clearing, looking around for Bustopher’s niece and nephew. The kittens with the wagon come tottering past him, wagon wheels squeaking on the smooth concrete.
“They might be in the kittens’ den,” Munk comments, scanning over the little posse of kittens that start scampering over when they spot the wagon one by one, cheering and mewing. None of them are Misto or Victoria. “One second,” he says to Bustopher before trotting over to the center of the clearing where the wagon is parked.
“Hey,” one of the older kittens is saying to Tugger, flanked on either side by a pair of colony kittens who are at the junkyard for the week. “You have to wait to get your share.”
“Then hurry up,” Tugger responds, pushing up onto his two feet to hook his paws over the edge of the wagon.
“Tugger,” Munk says, circling around the bulk of the crowd to come up behind his brother. Tugger is frowning when he twists around, like he thinks Munk materialized out of the ether to scold him about his wagon etiquette, and doesn’t fight it when the kitten gently pushes him off the edge of the wagon.
“What?”
“Do you know where Misto and Victoria are?” he asks, distractedly patting a head when one of the kittens comes up around him.
Tugger points over his shoulder. “Misto took her off to the kittens’ den a while ago. She wanted to take a nap or something.”
“Alright,” Munk says, retreating from the chaos at a skip so he can return to Bustopher. He quickly relays what Tugger had told him, then scurries off to grab the pair.
The kittens’ den isn’t far from the clearing for all the obvious reasons, so it’s less than a minute of power walking down the path before he hears voices.
“Stretch as far as you can,” Misto is saying. “Don’t lean back like that. St-straight up, as high as you can.”
“High as I can,” Victoria echoes.
Munk slows by the entrance to the clearing before the kittens’ den, eyeing the ballet duo standing in the center of the small space. Both of them have their paws above their heads, stretching upwards on tiptoe.
Misto briefly looks over to check his little sister’s posture. “Try to grab the moon.”
“The moon,” Victoria again echoes as her paws briefly claw up at the sky, like she’s really trying to grasp it. Munk smiles at their little seriousness about their stretches, watching a moment more while Misto continues to advise his sister to bend down and touch her toes, doing the same as he speaks.
But Munk’s here for a reason. “Hey, you two.”
Victoria startles at the sound of his voice and skitters sideways towards her brother, who straightens himself.
“Hi,” Misto greets, not reacting when Victoria grabs his wrist in both hands.
“Your uncle is here, he’d like to see you,” Munk explains. Misto tilts his head at that, brows high, but Victoria frowns.
“Uncle?” she prompts her brother.
“Uncle Bustopher,” Misto tells her. “He visited Mother a w-while ago, don’t you remember?”
Victoria shakes her head rapidly at him.
“She was probably very small, Misto, even if it was only a bit ago,” Munk reminds him. He gestures for them to come over. “Come on. He has treats for you and the other kittens.”
“Treats,” Victoria says intently. “Toffees, I want a treat.”
“You can get a treat once you say hello,” Munk promises, and leads the kittens out of the den and on their way to the clearing. The two little ones trot along behind him, Misto businesslike and Victoria clearly hesitant, still clinging to her brother’s wrist. Munk steps to the side at the clearing’s entrance to let the duo through first, smiling faintly at how Jenny has taken over the wagon and is barking at the kittens as she goes about unpacking the treats within.
Bustopher is watching the chaos, back to them, though he turns when Munk says, “Found them.”
Misto and Victoria stop a few paces before their uncle, and Munk steps to the side to give them room, arms crossed over his chest. As Bustopher gazes down at the two small kittens without any particular expression, they peer back up at him– Victoria looks even more nervous than she’d been a moment ago, but Mistoffelees seems calm.
“Hello, Uncle,” he says, his little voice so small and serious.
“Little Mistoffelees,” Bustopher greets in kind. “Victoria. It seems you’re being taken care of in your mother’s stead.”
Misto doesn’t reply to that, and just blinks up at Bustopher until he continues.
“I hope you two are behaving for Munkustrap.”
“You don’t have to hope,” Misto responds, a comment that Munk would call smarmy if he didn’t deliver it so seriously and carefully. “We’re behaving.”
“Very good.” Bustopher gestures behind him, at Jenny trying to fend off the swarming kittens. “I’ve brought treats for you and the other small ones. Run along and retrieve your share, you two.”
“Thank you,” Mistoffelees says, then looks down at Victoria in prompt.
“Dank you,” Victoria echoes smally.
Munk watches Misto drag his sister off, smiling faintly. Despite how up-and-down Misto’s been the past few weeks, he never fails to be a good brother to Victoria.
Bustopher twists to watch them go for a moment, then turns to Munkustrap. “Have you seen your father lately?” he asks, a disturbing non-sequitur that immediately has Munk nervous.
“Not in the past, erm…” Munk thinks on it a moment. “Couple weeks.”
“Do you know how he’s been fairing since Macavity’s… departure?”
Munk grimaces and rubs at his arm; admittedly there are worse topics Bustopher could’ve brought up. “Well… not well, but he could be worse.” His father is not a cat easily broken, not as old as he is, but Munkustrap can’t imagine what betrayal from one’s own child feels like. A child that was so beloved and so trusted at that.
“I have more rumors for you,” Bustopher continues, which is what Munk had been hoping he wouldn’t say a moment ago. “About your elder brother. Nothing confirmed, simply more whispers.”
Munk sighs and glances around, gaze falling on Tugger retreating from the wagon with a hunk of meatloaf clasped between his paws. “…Right.”
Bustopher seems to follow his gaze, though when Munk looks over at him, it appears his regard is focused closer to the wagon, where little Misto is waiting patiently for his share. “Brothers,” he says after a moment. “Trouble when they’re around… trouble when they’re gone.”
Brows pinched together, Munk watches Bustopher and his faraway gaze for a moment. Bustopher has always been a cat that kept to himself; Munk would never dream to ask him how he’s been doing after his twin brother’s untimely death not terribly long ago.
But some things hurt no matter how you deal with them, he knows perfectly well.
“Let’s… talk at my den,” Munk says, turning towards the clearing entrance with a heavy heart.
~
Tugger and Misto have this thing they’ve started doing in the past couple weeks, because sometimes Tugger wants to play with Misto but Misto obviously wants nothing to do with him at that precise moment. Tugger initially solved this ‘problem’ by screaming until Misto gave in, but he’d quickly learned –astoundingly enough– that forcing other kittens to play with him makes them like him less. And it turns out that Misto can be particularly biting when he wants to be, especially when he’s in a poor mood in the first place.
So they have this thing they do –Munk’s never heard either of them verbally speak about it, but it seems like almost a deliberate compromise– where as long as Misto stays close to Tugger, Tugger more or less leaves him alone. Tonight in particular Munk’s been busy for hours, and every time he crosses through the clearing he spots the duo somewhere, sitting nearly on top of each other and silently entertaining themselves without acknowledging each other.
Right now he's passing through on his way towards the kittens’ den– heat season is coming up in two weeks, and he’ll have to start making preparations soon, especially since Macavity isn’t here to handle most of it this year. Munk thought he’d start with modifying the kittens’ den for all the colony kittens that’ll be staying in the Yard for the next couple months, since that at least is something he has experience in doing. It was the one single task Macavity assigned to him every year.
But he pauses when he spots Misto and Tugger on top of the crates; at the same time Munk looks over, Misto swipes a paw over his eye with his head ducked. On its own that might not be worrying, but Tugger is also staring at him from where he’s sitting nearly at Misto’s hip, bent over to draw with chalk– which he’s not supposed to be doing on the crates, because it doesn’t wash out with the rain.
But the crates aside, those two things happening at the same time may mean that Misto is crying. Munk stands there and watches for a moment more, waiting until he sees Misto rub at his face again –this time paired with his shoulders hitching– before he sighs and crosses over.
It seems like Misto’s putting in a valiant (yet unsuccessful) attempt at hiding his sniffles– both kittens are completely silent when Munk crosses over, but the wet little gasp Misto makes and the concerned look Tugger turns to aim at him when he stops before the crates says enough.
“Mistoffelees,” Munk says, leaning against the two crates the boys are sitting on. “Are you alright?”
Misto nods vigorously and scrubs at his face again, half facing away from Munk.
He looks at Tugger. “What did you do?”
“I didn’t do anything,” Tugger replies, little voice offended. “He just started crying.”
“M’not crying,” Misto insists, tearfully.
“Yes you are,” Tugger retorts. “Why are you so sad all the time?”
“Not s-sad,” Misto continues to insist, drawing his knees up to his chest.
“Tugger, you’re not helping,” Munk chides. “Misto… do you want to come sit with me or Jenny or someone for a minute?”
“I was sitting with him first,” Tugger says with a frown. As if it’s a competition.
“Not everything revolves around you, Tugger,” Munk dismisses him. “Misto?”
“No,” Misto says, muffled because he has his face buried in his knees.
“Stop being sad,” Tugger tells Misto, almost like he’s scolding him.
Misto responds to that bit of unhelpfulness before Munk can. “You’re dumb.”
Munk is lost for what to do for a moment. He can’t just leave Misto here, crying, but if Misto doesn’t want to be comforted then there’s little for him to do.
He doesn’t know what to do with the little guy. He’s clearly not adjusting. This isn’t the first time Munk has caught Misto battling tears for seemingly no reason, though it’s the first time he’s appeared to have lost the fight.
It breaks everyone’s heart seeing him plod around with his head low and tail dragging, but no one seems to know what to do besides give him time. Cats keep telling Munk that. Gus, Jenny, Jelly, Old Dewey, Adelia. He needs time. Munk thinks he needs more than that. He… well, he needs his mother, clearly, but Munk can’t revive her and reunite the two.
Tugger turns to Munk at Misto’s tearful dismissal, looking lost himself, which is strange for Tugger.
“Misto,” Munk eventually decides. “How would you like to go on a walk with me and Tugger?”
“No.”
“We can go to my human’s den,” Munk continues, trying to sound tempting. “You can get a treat.”
He doesn’t really have time to go to his human’s. But a distraction might help. Maybe.
“No,” Misto mutters again, his breath hitching on the note.
“Come on,” Tugger tries, turning back to Misto. “You haven’t left the Yard since you came here, right? It’s boring here, and Munk’s human is nice.”
“Don’t wanna.”
“Come on.”
“Tugger,” Munk starts, sighing to himself when Tugger grabs Misto’s arm and tries to pull him to his feet.
“Don’t wanna,” Misto repeats tearfully. Once Tugger manages to yank him to his feet, Misto spills back to the crate below him like his legs are made of water. Tugger makes a frustrated noise in response and then crouches down to wrap his arms around Misto’s torso, heaving him bodily to his feet again. Sort of. Arms flung loosely over Tugger’s shoulders, Misto’s feet kick listlessly a couple tail-widths off the wooden floor due to their height difference.
“Tugger,” Munk says again when Misto whines. “He doesn’t like that.”
“You carry him then,” Tugger responds, wobbling towards the edge of the crate precautiously with all the extra weight he’s carrying. “He’s heavy.”
“I’m not making him do something he doesn’t want to do,” Munk tells his little brother. “And neither should you.”
“He wants to,” Tugger assures him as Misto continues to whine and kick. It’s not very convincing, but Munk doesn’t have any better ideas in this. At the edge of the crate, Tugger twists to peer at the concrete ground, and then tells Misto, “I’m gonna drop you.”
Misto whines again, twisting a bit to look himself. “Noo,” he mutters, squirming.
“I can’t hold on!” Tugger continues with unconvincing alarm, staggering closer to the edge. “Oh noo…”
Munk rolls his eyes and scruffs both boys, separating them and plunking them both to the concrete below. The first thing Misto does with his newfound freedom is scrub his eyes with his arm, sniffling.
“There,” Tugger says, looking satisfied. “That wasn’t so hard. Come on.”
He grabs Misto by the arm and starts to tow him off. Misto doesn’t whine this time, but he doesn’t look altogether enthusiastic either.
“Tugger,” Munk calls after him, and Tugger halts and twists to look back at Munk, frowning. Munk deliberates for a second, then sighs, “You’re going the wrong way.”
Tugger glances over his shoulder, pauses, and then silently does a 180, hauling Misto along behind him.
“Dumb,” Misto comments with what might actually be cheer as they trot past Munk towards the other exit. A little cheered himself, Munk follows.
~
“Your human lives far away,” Misto comments a while later, pausing briefly to touch some of the yellowed post-winter grass next to the sidewalk they’re on.
“She’s not my human,” Tugger tells him. “She’s Munk’s.”
“Oh,” Misto says shortly, in the way Munk is learning he usually does when someone corrects him. “Where’s-s your human live?”
“I don’t have one. Munk won’t let me find one. Too little.”
“Humans can be dangerous, Tugger,” Munk reminds him, the words well-worn on his tongue. “I don’t want you interacting with them until you’re old enough to be able to escape the bad ones easily.”
“You want a human?” Misto asks Tugger.
“Yeah,” Tugger responds. “Free food whenever you like, and their dens are warm. Why not?”
Misto shrugs a shoulder. “L-lots of cats don’t like humans.”
“Most humans are slow and dumb,” Tugger tells him. “And ugly. That makes it easy to escape from them; Munk’s just lame.”
“…It’s easier to escape from them because they’re ugly?”
“No, because they’re slow and dumb!” Tugger exclaims, hopping over a crack in the concrete. “Why would ugliness have anything to do with it?”
“I don’t know.” Misto pauses. “I knew a couple–” He only sticks on the word for a moment. “–ugly cats that were slow.”
“They were probably sick. Or old,” Tugger figures.
“Sick cats aren’t ugly,” Misto grouches. “My mom was still pretty after she got sick.”
“Maybe ugly cats are just sick more often, then,” Tugger continues thoughtfully.
“Sick and old cats aren’t ugly,” Munk feels the need to explain given the uncharitable direction their combined train of thought has headed. “They’re just tired and usually underweight. It’s harder for them to take care of themselves, which is why we do it.”
“A lecture,” Tugger mutters.
“And ugly cats aren’t more likely to get sick,” Munk continues. “The way a cat looks doesn’t have any bearing on their health or personality.”
“…Bear-ing,” Tugger repeats slowly.
“The way a cat looks doesn’t have anything to do with their health or personality,” Munk amends.
“You just said sick and old cats look tired and underweight,” Tugger retorts, of course arguing the point now that he understands it.
“Sometimes. Some cats might be sick and you’d have no idea. Or maybe they look sick but they’re not.” At Tugger’s confused look, Munk sighs. “Just don’t call cats ugly, Tugger. You’re supposed to keep that kind of thought in your head.”
“But–” Misto says abruptly, then pauses when Munk looks at him. He has no clue why, but the little guy looks stricken.
“What, Misto?” Munk prompts.
Misto is silent for a moment. “You’re not s-sup-pposed to tell cats they’re ugly?”
He stutters more when he’s nervous or distressed, Munk has found over the past weeks; it’s a half-decent way to guestimate how upset the little guy is at any given moment, since he clearly tries to hide that kind of thing. But Munk has also found that Misto struggles with the ‘S’ and ‘P’ sounds when they’re close together, so he’s not sure how to gauge the sudden fumbling.
“No. It’s rude.”
“So how is someone s-s-sup-p–“ Misto pauses, ears flattening, then corrects, “How do they know they’re ugly if no one will t-t-tell them?”
“They look at themselves,” Tugger says, and Misto actually looks down at his own legs then.
“You’re not ugly, Misto,” Munk tells him, a bit surprised.
“But you’re not s-sup-s-sup–” His shoulders jerk up, and Munk’s not entirely sure if he’s more frustrated by the conversation or his inability to say the word correctly. “You ha-have to say that. Because you ca-can’t t-t-tell cats they’re ugly.”
“You’re a kitten, Misto; all kittens are cute. You’re a little young to be worried about how you look, don’t you think?”
“Well, I wa-wasn’t until you s-said that everyone is s-s-sup-p–” He makes a frustrated keening sound, eyes scrunching shut.
“Supposed to,” Munk supplies patiently, which seems to only infuriate Misto further, though he continues with the given assistance.
“–Ke-ke-eep ugliness a s-secret!” he finishes, spitting the words between his teeth with finality.
“It’s not a secret,” Munk tells him slowly. “You’re just not supposed to say it.”
Misto considers that for a moment, gaze flickering back and forth with a rapidness that Munk would almost call panic. “…What’s the difference?”
“It…” Munk starts, though admittedly he’s thrown by the question. He stops in his tracks to scratch behind his head, stumped. “Well… Uh. I’ll be honest, Misto; no one has ever asked me that.”
Munk had thought his tone was fairly neutral, maybe even amused, but Misto recoils as if Munk had yelled at him, lifting his little paws to his mouth in horror.
“What’s wrong?” Munk asks, glancing briefly at Tugger stopped beside them both.
“I thought it wrong?” Misto half proclaims, half asks.
Munk blinks at him, not even remotely sure what that means. “You… what?”
With that, Misto immediately breaks out into tears.
Munk stares at the keening kitten blankly for a couple seconds, too thrown by that short and potentially one-sided conversation to even follow what just happened, much less figure out what he said wrong. Tugger turns to glare at him while Misto hides his face behind the cross of his wrists, hiccupping short little sobs.
“You made him sad again,” he accuses heatedly.
“I–” Munk starts. “I have no idea what I said. Do you?”
“No,” Tugger tells him, then shuffles a couple steps over to sobbing Misto. “Stop being sad,” he orders brusquely, grabbing at Misto’s wrists. “Nothing happened.”
“I di-di-did it wrong!” Misto tearfully proclaims, fighting Tugger and waggling his hands to try and dislodge him.
“You think you… did something wrong?” Munk asks, slowly crouching before the two kittens. “What do you think you did wrong?” And then, “Stop harassing him, Tugger.”
“I thought it wrong!” Tugger doesn’t give up, and Munk has to spend a few seconds wrangling him away from Misto before he can process that.
“You–” Munk starts, shoving Tugger away with a hand on his chest. “You thought something wrong?” He pushes Tugger away again when he tries to circle around his hip. “Misto, you can’t think something wrong.”
“You can’t!” Misto wails, hands still covering his face. “I c-can!”
“Buddy… that doesn’t make any sense.”
Misto nods behind his hands. “Yeah, I know! I did it wr-wr-wrong!”
At his side, Tugger bursts out with sudden understanding, “He’s sad because you’re too dumb to get what he’s trying to say!”
Munk twists to look at his little brother, taken aback. He can do nothing other than watch Tugger trot up to Misto again. “Stop crying,” he insists in an only sort-of gentler tone. “You didn’t do anything wrong.” His efforts are a bit more effective this time, as Misto actually lets Tugger bat away his hands. “It’s not your fault he’s not smart enough to get it.”
Misto sniffs and peers up at Tugger with misty-eyed confusion, grimacing a little when he bats Misto’s one hand a bit more out of the way and then gruffly uses his palms to smear away the tears in his eyes. “I-I-I’m the one who do-doesn’t get it,” he tells Tugger mournfully.
“Get what?”
“Things people don’t s-say.”
Tugger considers that for a moment. “Like adult things?”
“Like everything.” Misto points at Munk, then says in a rush, “You’re s-s-sup-sup–” He makes a frustrated noise. “–HAVE t-t-to keep ugliness a s-secret but it’s not actually a s-secret and–” He tenses, mouth open, then relaxes. “–and everyone un-und-understands it but m-m-me ‘cause I’m the only one who asked.”
Tugger looks at Munk for a second, then turns to Misto. “You can’t tell people they’re ugly because it’s a rule, not because it’s a secret.”
“It’s a rule to keep a s-s-secret?”
“No. If it’s fun to not say something, it’s a secret. If it’s boring to not say it, then it’s a rule,” Tugger explains succinctly. “It’s boring to not tell ugly people they’re ugly, which makes it a rule.”
“Oh,” Misto says shortly, paws plopping down to his sides.
That… well. That explanation leaves a lot to be desired, but admittedly Munk couldn’t have given a better one.
“Was that it, Misto?” Munk asks, still kneeling; he tries to smile when Misto sends him a wide-eyed look. “You were upset because you didn’t understand?”
Munk must’ve upset him when he said Misto was the only one who asked– he feels a little silly for not catching on. Misto has been surrounded by strange cats with strange customs for weeks now, alone except for his barely-verbal little sister. He never even had a colony before this. He probably feels insecure about being the odd one out. Maybe that’s part of why he’s adjusting so poorly.
Misto interlocks his fingers nervously, shoulders hunching in. He wipes at his face with his arm and sniffs again, only uttering a short, “Ummm…”
“It’s alright to ask when you don’t get something, Misto. Everybody misunderstands things sometimes. Even me– I just misunderstood what you were trying to say.”
“Because I s-said it wrong,” Misto reminds him.
“Tugger understood it,” Munk retorts with a smile. “It’s alright. Sometimes cats misunderstand each other. It’s nothing to be sad about– we just keep trying until we do get it.”
When Misto only sniffs in response to that, Munk just smiles at him one last time and stands.
“Come on,” he tells the duo. “We’re almost there.”
~
“Are you sure you don’t want to come up?” Munk asks in the alleyway beside his human’s apartment.
Misto nods rapidly, though Tugger doesn’t seem touched. “She’s small and old,” he says. “Not scary. She might try to pet you, though.”
“That’s fine,” Munk tells Misto when he only shakes his head at Tugger in response. “As long as you stay put right here and don’t move. I’ll only be a minute. Okay?”
Misto gives Munk a brief nod, already looking quite a bit calmer. Munk imagines his mother must’ve left him alone for at least short periods of time before he came here, so he supposes the little guy knows the song and dance. Or lack thereof, technically.
“How are you going to get a snack from down here?” Tugger demands, though.
“If he wants to stay, he can,” Munk tells Tugger firmly. “Don’t make him, you’ve done enough of that for one night.”
Tugger sends Munk a look that very clearly says he doesn’t think he’s done enough of that for one night, so Munk puts his hands on his hips.
“Tugger, you go up first or I’m picking you up and throwing you.”
His resentful glare could melt glass, Munk’s pretty sure. The little scamp probably practices it in front of the mirror during Jenny’s dance lessons. Either way, the glare is all he offers in terms of resistance as he crawls over to the brick wall and starts scampering up.
“I’ll be right back,” Munk tells Misto before following.
His human leaves her window cracked most of the time, or at least after the ball she does. It’s too cold for her to do it during the winter, which Munk is fine with. He just scratches and meows to be let in, and she doesn’t usually take too long to hear him when she’s home. But tonight the breeze is mild and the window is open, so Munk squeezes under after Tugger, immediately sneezing at the chemical-human scent of her home. Tugger sits on the ledge and starts to lick his paw while Munk hops down to the soft carpet, meowing as he pads over to the room with the TV in it, where she usually spends her time.
She comes doddering out of the kitchen, though. “Oh hello, Felix,” she greets him, smiling when he scampers over and rubs against her leg. “How is my handsome boy?”
“Fine,” he responds absently, passing by to check that her den is as it always is. Someone has to keep an eye on her; she doesn’t seem to have any colony to look out for her, or even a mate, which is unusual for humans. They mate up like you wouldn’t believe, and they usually stay with the first human that they shack up with. Bit bizarre, but that’s humans.
“Oh, and you brought your little friend!” she calls from the other room. “Would you like a snack, sweetie?”
“Sometime tonight, yes,” Tugger replies, muffled. Munk rolls his eyes, but his human just coos in response.
Munk does a brief check over each of the rooms, assuring himself that everything looks and smells as it always does. This’ll probably be the last visit he can squeeze in before heat season, so it’ll be a while before he’s here again to check up on her.
He exits the bedroom and finds his human reclining in front of her TV, knitting some long fluffy thing that’s spread out over her lap. Munk hops up onto the arm of her chair and rubs his face against her hand when she pats his head.
“Such a good boy,” she says, scratching under his chin. “You should probably go get a sardine before your little friend eats them all.”
Munk frowns at that, and quickly grows concerned when he realizes he hasn’t heard a peep from Tugger in a couple minutes now. He hops down from the poofy chair and crosses back over to the window, which is empty both of the can he’d heard his human open only a bit ago and Tugger.
“Tugger?” Munk calls, looking around. When there’s no response, he hops up to the ledge and squeezes under the window, peering down at the alley.
He rolls his eyes fondly when he finds Misto and Tugger sitting next to each other far below, sharing sardines from a can that’s more than a little bit dented from the presumable fall down.
~
Munk initially had some reluctance to detour through the park that’s not far from the Yard on their walk back home, but as Tugger put it, ‘you’ve already wasted a bunch of time, might as well waste some more’. He’s glad he gave into Tugger’s pleading though, which isn’t a common feeling for him. But admittedly there isn’t much work he’d be able to finish during the few minutes he’d have saved by taking them the shorter way, and Misto seems to be genuinely having fun hopping through the grass with Tugger, his two previous poor moods forgotten.
Following behind the scampering kittens, Munk watches with a wry smile when Misto scurries sideways and all but tackles Tugger, who shouts gleefully as he goes down. The two roll sideways, and Munk is left both amused and charmed when he realizes that bigger Tugger is definitely holding some of his own weight up on spare elbows and knees as he and Misto ‘tussle’. He shakes his head; who knew the little scamp was capable of actually being considerate.
Or helpful. Munk’s still surprised that his little brother was able to shut down the miscommunication he and Misto had, and calmed Misto down so quickly. Cats tend to be charmed by Tugger, but that’s more due to his paradoxical lack of charm more than anything else. Munk’s sure everyone is going to get sick of the spoiled prince routine once he gets older, but regardless, people skills are not one of Tugger’s strengths, at least Munk never thought so. He’s just too blunt. But he handled Misto fairly well, setting aside the lacking gentleness that the situation required. And the not-lacking-enough physical contact.
Speaking of, Munk’s attention is split when he hears Misto’s now not-unfamiliar whining. He sighs when he looks up to find Tugger is trying to nuzzle Misto again; having seemingly paused their game, the two boys are sitting in front of each other on the grass, and Tugger is gripping Misto’s upper arms so he can’t squirm away. Despite obvious efforts.
Munk doesn’t know how many times he’s talked to Tugger about this. He just does not seem to be able to process the concept that Misto doesn’t want to be nuzzled– despite Tugger’s own aversion to the same thing.
Well, sort of. Tugger’s rubbing his cheek against Misto’s jaw and neck like he thinks if he does it hard enough Misto will just start liking it. Which Munk imagines is actually the opposite of the solution: Tugger hates so much as a pat on the head, but Munk’s seen Misto bonk heads with Victoria plenty of times, and he seems to have little problem with sitting in older cats’ laps. Or hugs. It’s nuzzling, specifically, that he doesn’t like– Munk’s not sure if it’s something about the rubbing for him, or maybe there’s some emotional or sentimental significance going on, but either way Munk’s pretty sure that Misto’s not going to come around if Tugger just keeps on trying it.
Munk goes to yell at his brother, but finds his voice fizzling out in his throat when he blinks and Misto is just… gone.
Munk straightens, blinking again and then swiping at his eyes with the palm of his hand, but it doesn’t seem like he’s at the mercy of a trick of the light or a stress-induced hallucination. Misto really is just no longer in the spot he was sitting merely seconds ago. Tugger is left on the grass by himself, staring at his now-empty paws with befuddlement that matches Munk’s own.
Befuddlement that sharpens straight to dizzying fear. “Where did he go?” Munk calls to Tugger, as if he’d have an answer, but Tugger just turns to look back at Munk with wide eyes. “Where did he go?” Munk repeats, turning on his heels to look around.
The park is wide and mostly bare except for the occasional trimmed bush or picnic table, and completely empty. No humans, no cats, no Misto. Munk spins several more times, searching for a glimpse of a black tail or a little white head or a pair of curved ears, but there’s nothing.
He’s just gone.
Munk brings his hands to his forehead, smoothing back the fur falling over his eyes as his breaths start to grow heavy in panic. Gone. Not in a shower of sparkles or a poof of smoke, just disappeared between one blink and the next like he was never there in the first place. Had that been magic? Had that–? He doesn’t know. Where did he go? is all he can ask himself, over and over again, not even sure where to begin looking–
“Munk–” a little voice says behind him, and all of the fear flees from Munk in one sharp exhale that hurts his lungs.
He whirls around and finds Misto scampering out from behind one of the nearest bushes. “What was that?” Munk demands in a voice harsher than he’d intended, and Misto flinches, halting in his tracks beside the bush.
“I–” Misto starts, twisting his hands in front of himself while his gaze flits back and forth. “I- I- I-”
His eyes are starting to well with tears again, so Munk swallows down his shaky frustration. “Don’t cry, Misto,” he says with exhaustion, crossing over to the kitten and leveraging down to his knees before him. “Don’t cry.” He reaches out and grabs Misto’s little arms, holding them carefully in either hand. “You just scared me.”
Misto blinks up at him with shining eyes. “I- I didn’t m-m-mean to be scary,” he admits on a sniffle.
“I didn’t know you could do that,” Munk says as evenly as he can. “Have you always been able to do that?”
Misto nods. “It… Mother always s-s-said not t-to.”
Munk almost laughs at that, a near-hysterical sound escaping from his throat. “Yes, I can see why. You… can control it? You can do it on command?”
“I have to thi-think about it,” Misto admits, looking down and stubbing his toe into the dirt. “And I can’t m-m-make myself go s-so-somewhere.”
Munk ignores Tugger coming up to his side. “What does that mean?”
Misto shrugs. “I j-just go wherever. It’s a disap-p-ppearing trick. The dis-a-p-pear-ing is the p-point, not the… re-appear-pear-pearing.”
“You… you can’t control where you end up?”
“No.”
Munk closes his eyes. Considering Misto’s range on the… ‘disappearing trick’ with the coin and the ball, who knows how far his reach stretches. If he doesn’t know where he’s going when he does that, he could’ve ended up in the lap of some human. In a pollicle dog’s dinner bowl. Hurtling off the edge of the tallest building in the city.
“Misto,” he says slowly, eyes still closed. “I agree with your mother. Please, never ever do that.”
When he opens his eyes, Misto is tearing up again. “I did a wr-wrong thing?” he asks, voice cracking.
“Misto,” Munk says, not entirely sure how to both assure the kitten and impart the seriousness of this new rule on him. He releases his arms and clasps his hands on either side of Misto’s face, carefully. “Look at me,” he prompts when Misto fixes his eyes on his feet. “Did your mother tell you why she didn’t want you doing that?”
“Be-be-be-be–” Misto stutters for a short while, long enough that Munk grows concerned, before he swallows and recovers. “Because she was afraid I’d get hurt.”
“Yes,” Munk agrees. “So do you understand why I don’t want you doing that too?”
Misto swallows and looks away again, in Tugger’s direction.
“No.” Munk leans in closer to grab his attention. “Do you understand, Misto?”
This time he responds with a rapid shake of his head, gaze on Munk’s collar.
“Why don’t you understand?”
Misto’s shoulders curl in on themselves, and he rubs at his paws for a moment before hesitantly saying, “My mo-mother loves me.”
The use of present tense distracts Munk for a sympathetic moment, so it takes a bit for the implication of that explanation to set in.
“You think I don’t?” he prompts, raising his brows. Misto just shakes his head. “Well, I do,” he tells the little kitten, smiling somewhat. “I love you, and I love your sister. I know I’m not your mother, but I do love you. You’re part of the tribe now, you’re one of us.”
He lifts his hands to stroke over Misto’s head and briefly flattens his ears with his fingers, unable to help himself. Misto doesn’t seem bothered, however, and just stares at Munk in silence, so Munk drops his hands to his thighs and continues.
“I don’t want you doing that, because I can’t take care of you or protect you when I don’t know where you are. Okay?”
It takes Misto a long moment to nod at that.
“Okay. Now let’s go home, alright? You’ve had plenty of excitement for one night.”
Misto nods, and before Munk can get up, shuffles between his splayed thighs and plops his cheek against Munk’s shoulder. Smiling faintly, Munk wraps an arm around Misto’s legs and heaves to his feet, shifting the kitten to rest on his hip.
“How come you can do that and I can’t?” Tugger demands once he’s up, and Munk turns to squint down at his little brother.
“You and I are going to have a conversation about boundaries when we get back, Tugger,” he says, starting towards the junkyard.
“Another one,” Tugger comments with distaste.
“Yes!” Munk exasperates, looking down at Tugger when he scampers up to his side. “And we’re going to keep having them until one of them gets to you.”
“Hm,” is Tugger’s only response, and Misto limply wraps his arms around Munk’s neck with a little sigh.
Chapter Text
Heat season means more cats in the junkyard. A lot more cats in the junkyard. Most members of the inner tribe (and not to mention a few junkyard regulars) have their own little dens, sized to host one or two cats only. Munk’s den in particular was Macavity’s before him, and it honestly was barely big enough to hold the three of them during the brief time that they cohabitated.
Meanwhile dozens of colonies come to the junkyard during heat season, each with their own sizable population of cats, and that’s not even touching on individual strays or human-living cats who also come down here for the two-month-long season. So many bodies and mouths in the Yard at one time requires a lot of planning, preparation, and conflict resolution.
When Munk was small, Macavity handled these tasks. He was no people-pleaser, Munk’s older brother, but he could stop any argument in its tracks with barely more than a glare, and most colony leaders Munk knows would rather have come to a dissatisfying resolution in a conflict between colonies than involve Macavity in their dealings. He also handled finding or creating temporary denspace for the two months, a fairly simple task for a magical cat who could levitate pieces of furniture twice any cat’s size with barely a thought. But there are also matters of strengthening patrols and securing food sources (like the nearby dumpsters) so that there are no encounters with pollicle dogs, humans, or feral strays stealing food that the Yard will be sorely needing in the upcoming weeks.
Macavity handled all of this with ease every year. He’d been a taskmaster to fear and magical besides. Munk had been in awe of him as a kitten, always so equipped to handle any obstacle life threw his way. Nice, Macavity was not. Pleasant he also was not. But no one could say he wasn’t bloody efficient.
Munk remembers he’d had to hassle him for months and months before Macavity had deigned to assign little Munkustrap his single task for heat season preparations– that had been preparing the kittens’ den. Lots of colonies bring their kittens to stay in the Yard with them during the season, and no one wants kittens running underfoot while mating dances are occurring, so Macavity set up the little kittens’ den clearing so it could be cut off from the main clearing with a bit of finagling. That way the little ones all remain accounted for and safe during the nights when their elders are indulging in more adult activities.
On top of that there was little Munkustrap’s job: the actual broken-desk den within the little clearing has to be expanded upon, because their kitten count oftentimes can more than quintuple during heat season.
Making these alterations would probably take Macavity fifteen minutes at most. For Munk, expanding the den was a task that took most of a night on a good year. He’s pretty sure the only reason Macavity ever let him do it in the first place is because he didn’t want to deal with little Munkustrap being underfoot all the time.
But Macavity is gone now. And Munkustrap has to show the Yard –not just the inner tribe, or Deuteronomy, but all of the visiting colonies who rely on the junkyard for neutral territory– that he is capable of taking his brother’s place in this.
It’s not going well.
Munk lets out a deep sigh, head resting in his hands. He’s been sitting in the kittens’ den clearing, surrounded by a mess of tarps and ropes and metal poles, for… he doesn’t know. A long time now. It had taken half of his night to gather all of this shit, but he’s not even entirely sure how he’s going to utilize it. The broken-desk den is made up of (which may come as a shock) a broken desk sticking out of a particularly tall pile; in previous years he’d use a box and some rope or a similar kind of contraption to elongate the structure so that all of the heat season kittens would have room to huddle up and sleep. This year he’d had thoughts about building a tunnel coming off the mouth of the den, since the cardboard box angle isn’t terribly waterproof, but it just isn’t coming together the way he’d imagined.
In past years, he could spend as long as he wanted figuring this shit out because it was his only responsibility. This year however, he has so many other tasks to do he doesn’t know how he'll finish it all in time even if he were already done with this.
Resentment bubbles under his skin, prickly and unwelcome. We were supposed to be brothers, he thinks to himself, childishly pained. We were supposed to support each other. You were supposed to support me.
“Munk?”
Munk jolts at the familiar little voice in front of him, lifting his head to blink at Alonzo creeping across the kittens’ den clearing, all by himself and eyes wide.
“Alonzo,” he sighs. “I told you all to stay in the main clearing until I was done with this.”
Alonzo doesn’t seem moved by this short scolding and creeps a few pattering steps closer to Munk. “Jenny told me to tell you that Skimble is here.”
“Alright,” Munk sighs, not displeased to hear it. It’s been a while since Skimble could visit; his train is probably on maintenance or something. “Tell her I said thank you.”
Despite the dismissal, Alonso doesn’t turn to leave. “Are you okay?”
“Okay?” Munk echoes, and reaches up to scratch at his cheek. The backs of his fingers encounter something wet; he jerks his paw away thinking he’d cut his face somehow, and finds all that’s smeared across his knuckles is salt water. He stares down at his hand for a long uncomprehending moment before jerking with embarrassment and hurriedly swiping at his face. “I’m fine, Alonzo,” he says quickly, rubbing at his eye.
Alonzo looks over at the pile of useless crap Munk has assembled, and pushes up to his feet so that he can rest his paws on Munk’s knee. “Is this stuff making you sad?”
“No,” Munk assures him. “No, I’m just…” He looks around with defeat. “I’m just having some trouble, is all.”
Alonzo blinks up at him, blue eyes wide. “Can I help?”
He smiles at Alonzo’s ever-present eagerness to assist, and reaches over to ruffle him between the ears fondly. “No, I’m afraid not. Kind of an adult thing.”
“Oh,” Alonzo says, then drops down to sit cross-legged in front of Munk. “How much longer until I’m an adult?”
“A while.”
“Oh.”
“Don’t be in a hurry to grow up, Alonzo,” Munk tells him with dark amusement. “It’s not as fun as it seems.”
“Don’t care if it’s fun,” Alonzo replies sourly. “I want to help you with things.”
Munk smiles, charmed. “You might change your mind once you’re old enough to do so.”
“Nuh-uh.” Alonzo looks back at Munk, both wide-eyed and determined.
“Thank you for the thought, Alonzo,” Munk figures. “If you’d really like to help me right now though, you can go tell Jenny that you did what she asked you.”
Alonzo gets to his feet with obvious reluctance, frowning sideways at Munk. “You’re just trying to get rid of me.”
“I don’t want to drop anything on your head,” Munk tells him, gesturing sideways at the metal poles lying in a stack nearby.
Alonzo frowns at the poles, then looks at Munk. “I’ll help you with this when I’m bigger,” he says, like he’s declaring it so, and then turns and scampers off back to the clearing.
A few minutes later Munk decides to peel himself off the ground and go greet Skimble, as pitying himself isn’t particularly worthwhile for anyone. It’s fairly busy when he crosses into the main clearing, more so than it had been at moonrise when he was last here– Skimble is most likely somewhere in the crowd of cats that have gathered over by the tire.
Unlike most members of the inner tribe, Skimble wasn’t raised here. He’s from Glasgow, and according to him, they don’t have anything like the junkyard there. The first time Skimble had ventured through London as an elder kitten, having temporarily escaped his train-running humans for a night, he’d apparently been shocked when he’d stumbled upon the Yard. In a good way, he always says. It benefits no one to hide from each other all the time, he’s told Munk before. As a result, Munk didn’t know Skimble growing up, but he’s still fond of the older tom. And despite not being here from practically birth, he’s been a member of the tribe for a long while now. It’s hard not to like him.
Tugger manages just fine though.
Munk passes by his little brother near the clearing entrance, arms crossed and legs sprawled out. Misto is just off to his side, and Victoria is slumped over her brother’s thigh, legs waggling back and forth as she eyes the commotion with nervousness. Tugger, on the other hand, is openly glaring.
“Are you going to say hello to Skimble?” Munk asks Tugger, pausing behind the small trio.
“No,” Tugger mutters.
Misto looks up at Munk, then over at Tugger, brows raised. It’s another one of those moments where he’s clearly confused but isn’t asking. Munk sighs and summons a smile at the little tuxedo. “Skimble is one of the members of the tribe,” he explains. “Like you and me and Tugger. He’s just away sometimes.”
“Oh,” Misto says.
“Do you want to go say hello?”
“No,” Misto immediately insists. And then thoughtfully he adds, “Do I have to?”
“He’ll probably want to meet you two eventually,” Munk responds. “But you don’t have to wade into the crowd. He’s a popular cat.”
Misto just nods, so Munk leaves the kittens to it and wades into the crowd himself, patting shoulders and shuffling around admirers until he’s at the center of the chattering throng. Skimble stands in the middle of the mess, hands spread, clearly in the middle of a story while Jenny hangs off of his shoulder. When he sees Munk he smiles and cuts himself off.
“Munkustrap!” he greets with cheer, slapping him on the shoulder when he gets within range. “How are you?”
“Fine, Skimble,” Munk replies, smiling.
“How’s heat season prep coming along?”
“Slowly.”
“Very slowly,” Jenny adds, fixing Skimble with a knowing look.
Munk scratches at the back of his paw, battling defensiveness. “As fast as it can, at least.”
“I hope there’s something I can help with,” Skimble tells him. “I don’t know if you’ve delegated tasks already.”
“He hasn’t delegated tasks at all,” Jenny says, frowning his way.
Skimble raises his brows at Munk; Munk, not thrilled to be discussing this with a whole shuffling crowd surrounding them, changes the subject. “Did Jenny tell you we have new kittens in the tribe?”
Skimble looks over at Jenny. “No.”
“A tom and a queen,” Jenny replies, pushing off of him to hold herself up. “Ballet cats.”
The crowd begins to slowly disperse then, perhaps sensing that their story is going to be at least postponed for now. “Full siblings, separate litters. Their mother passed about a month ago,” Munk continues. “Bustopher’s niece and nephew.”
“His brother had kittens?” Skimble says. “He didn’t pass long ago, did he?”
“No. The younger one’s just barely weaned. Bustopher thinks he was no help to their mother, but Jelly says that he must’ve been helping her hunt or something at least, and after he died the stress was too much for her. She got ill and went along within a week of coming here.”
“Mmm.” Skimble puts his hands on his hips, glancing sideways as Augustus slides from the crowd. He grins at the sight of his friend, dropping his paws. “Little Gus!”
“You have got to stop with that name,” Augustus responds with a quirk of the mouth, leaning in to return the nuzzle Skimble steps forward to bestow upon him with a hum.
Munk’d been hoping that the topic had been officially changed, but Skimble leans back from Augustus and immediately asks, “So what’s this about heat season preparations?”
Munk shakes his head. “It’s fine. I have it.”
“He’s trying to do everything himself,” Augustus tells Skimble conspiratorially, a hand on his shoulder.
“Aye?” Skimble remarks. “Sounds like a good way to set yourself to crash and burn.”
“It’s fine, Skimble. Really.” It may be hopeless, but he crosses his arms and ventures again, “One of the two new kittens is magical, did you hear? He can teleport things, and himself.”
“A teleporting kitten,” Skimble says with surprise. “Sounds… demanding.”
“Misto is a little darling,” Jenny tells Skimble. “Almost never misbehaves. And Munk is the only one to actually see him do any magic, I think.”
“He’s rather shy,” Munk explains. “And his sister is even more so.”
“How about you introduce me, then,” Skimble suggests, reaching into the pocket of his red overalls. Munk smiles at the pair of little bells he pulls out, nodding sideways at the railway cat before setting off in the direction Tugger and Misto had been sitting.
He actually hears Skimble sigh a little when he spots Tugger sitting amongst the two ballet cats. Munk can’t blame him; Tugger is especially difficult with Skimble for some reason.
“Misto, Victoria,” Munk says, slowing before the trio. He gestures sideways at Skimble beside him, paws clasped behind his back. “This is Skimble.”
Skimble smiles warmly at the two kittens as he crouches down. Munk steps to the side to give him room. “Hello, little ones,” he greets as he brings his bell-holding hand to his front.
“Hi,” Misto says, which has been his tried-and-true response when being introduced to other cats for a while now. Victoria, on the other hand, just stares up at Skimble, blueish eyes wide and shoulders tight. When she remains silent, Misto looks over at his sister and prompts, “Say hi.”
“Hi,” Victoria peeps dutifully, and Skimble smiles.
“I’m not here at the Yard very often, I’m afraid,” he explains. “My humans run a train, and I have responsibilities to handle on it. But we’ll be seeing more of each other in the future. If either of you ever need help with anything, I’ll be at your service with just a call.”
With this, he reaches out towards the two kittens, adjusting one of his bells between two fingers so as to offer to Victoria. She takes the shiny bell with awestruck eyes and cupped hands, and it jingles as it plops onto her paws. Smiling to herself, she shakes the bell between her palms, flashing her little fangs when it cheerily dings and clinks.
Skimble shifts and offers the other bell to Misto, who takes the gift with much more hesitance than his sister. He eyes the bell (much bigger-looking in his little palm than Skimble’s) then peers up at Skimble with a frown.
He doesn’t get something again; Munk’s not exactly sure what, though. After another couple seconds of frowning, Misto pushes up to his knees and shuffles in towards Skimble, wordlessly reaching up to the orange cat’s ear. Skimble smiles in polite confusion at this and doesn’t move away, blinking when Misto pulls away with one of those shiny coins that he can summon in his hand. Even Munk’s not entirely sure where Misto is going with this, though it clears up some when he wordlessly thrusts the coin at Skimble, bell clutched in his other fist.
“Oh,” Skimble says, taking the coin with further polite confusion. “Is this for me?”
“Yes,” Misto says with that charming little seriousness of his.
“I– thank you.” Skimble takes the coin and turns it over between his fingers, glancing briefly up at Munk.
“Where were you hiding that?” Tugger asks Misto when he sits back down, bell in hand.
“I don’t know,” Misto replies, which doesn’t seem to satisfy Tugger. But he seems distracted by how Misto stares down at the bell, cupped in his palms like water.
“That’s a bell,” he explains, clearly also picking up on Misto’s confusion. “You’re supposed to shake it.”
Misto closes his fists around the bell and frowns sideways at Tugger. “I know what bells are,” he grumbles. “M’not stupid.”
“Don’t be mean, Tugger,” Skimble chides, looking unamused and probably taking Tugger’s genuine attempt to help as earnestly as Misto had.
“I’m not!” Tugger exclaims, gesturing inwards at his fluffy chest.
When Skimble just raises his arched brows at Tugger, Munk steps up to his brother’s defense. “He’s not,” he echoes, curling his hand around Skimble’s arm.
Skimble responds to the silent bid to stand and allows Munk to lead him a couple pawsteps away from the trio of kittens. Glancing only briefly at the flat-eared Misto holding his little bell and frowning Tugger glaring after them, he explains in a low voice.
“Misto doesn’t understand things sometimes. Tugger probably really did think Misto’s never encountered bells before.”
“You’re too lenient with him,” Skimble responds with a fond exasperation.
“No, really,” Munk insists, raising his brows. “Misto was reduced to tears the other night because he didn’t know what the difference between politeness and secret-keeping was. He’s just… a little different from most kittens.” Skimble lifts the coin Misto had given him, turning it over between his fingers. “Yeah, I don’t know,” Munk answers the silent question. “Maybe he felt like he needed to give you a gift too. Like I said, he doesn’t understand things sometimes.”
“I see,” Skimble figures with a thoughtful look on his face.
“Tugger is actually really good with him.” Munk pauses. “Well, he could be better. But he’s pretty taken with Misto. Follows him around; answers all his questions. They’re an unlikely duo, but I think they’re good for each other.”
“Skimble!” shouts Jenny’s voice before the railway cat can respond. He and Munk both look up to find Jenny atop the TSE with a newly-arrived Jellylorum standing primly at her side, smiling widely. Jenny waves Skimble over with one hand, using the other to gesture at Jelly.
“Give me a moment, Munk,” Skimble tells him, already stepping away. “After I say hello to Jelly, I want to talk about this heat season preparation schedule of yours.”
“Skimble–” Munk starts, but Skimble is already trotting off to greet his friend.
“–that magic?”
Munk perks up at those words coming out of what sounds like his brother’s mouth, and twists to look over at the kittens who’ve long since dismissed his and Skimble’s presence.
“What?” Misto asks.
“You made a coin appear!” Tugger exclaims over the sound of Victoria still gleefully shaking her bell, rolled onto her back next to Misto and entirely ignoring them. “It was like– poof, and then you were holding it.”
“There wasn’t any… poof.”
“Whatever. You still made it appear. You didn’t do any tricks when I asked you to.” Idly Munk wonders when this was. He certainly wasn’t around when it happened.
“That’s different.”
“Why?”
“I didn’t have anything else to give him.”
“Skimble?” Tugger repeats. “You didn’t have to give him anything.”
“But he gave me and Vicky bells.”
Munk shrugs a shoulder at that little mystery being confirmed. He has no clue why Misto feels comfortable telling Tugger his train of thought after the fact, but not Munk himself while it was happening.
“He gives bells to all the kittens.”
Many kittens are prone to exaggeration, but in this Tugger is correct. Munk thinks the bell Skimble once gave Tugger is still sitting in their den somewhere, probably buried under the pile of toys Tugger has in there.
And there’s a story there: Skimble’s humans are apparently very insistent that he have a bell on his collar. Skimble, like any cat with the barest amount of dignity, of course doesn’t stand for that and removes them every chance he gets. And every chance they get, his humans replace the bell. So Skimble always has spare bells in his overall pockets. Munk’s pretty sure that he wouldn’t be able to stop Skimble from handing out his errant bells to the local kittens if he tried.
“Oh,” Misto visibly slumps, ears flattening cheerlessly as his shoulders drop. “I did it wrong again.”
“I think it was wicked,” Tugger responds. “Can you do that with other stuff?” He quickly perks up. “Could you make a salmon appear? No, what about a steak? Or some rice pudding? Actually, what about–”
“Shut up,” Misto grumpily interrupts Tugger’s indecisive tirade. “It’s only coins.” Then he looks over at Tugger, squinting thoughtfully at his friend. “Why were you m-making grouchy faces at him?”
“He doesn’t like me,” Tugger says. “For no reason.”
For no reason. Tugger has actually interrupted Skimble’s songs on more than one occasion, and Munk’s sure Skimble’s heard all the gossip from Jenny, Gus, and Jelly about how difficult Tugger is on the nightly.
He’s like a little Macavity sometimes, Skimble has commented to Munk on more than one occasion. Munk’s never seen it, but then again Munk knew Macavity a hop and a skip better than the rest of the tribe did. Or… at least he’d thought so.
“Maybe it’s because you’re annoying,” Misto replies thoughtfully, not acknowledging Tugger’s exasperated stare.
Munk thinks he’s never going to get over the comedic value of the precise look that Tugger tends to inspire in the tribe’s elders being on his brother’s own little face. There’s just something so hilarious and charming about it. And frankly the little scamp could use a heaping dose of the cheeky younger brother routine.
…Maybe that’s why he likes Misto so much. After all, Tugger did lose a magical brother recently.
“Are you ever going to stop saying that?”
“It’s true though,” Misto responds.
Tugger shakes his head. “Nuh-uh. Skimble probably just doesn’t like me because I’m too cool for his stupid train stuff.”
Misto looks over at Tugger, frowning as he eyes his fluffy friend up and down. “How are you cold with so much fur?”
Tugger blinks at him, then exasperates, “Cool, not cold.”
Misto leans back a little, ears twisting out. Then, “You’re… only a little cold…?”
“No,” Tugger corrects him, looking rather pleased to be teaching his friend something. “Cool is like… when a cat is awesome and popular and important.”
“…You’re not any of those things, Tugger,” Misto responds after a brief silence broken only by Victoria’s jingling, and Munk can’t help his responding laugh-choke noise that earns the two kittens’ attention.
“You always say that eavesdropping is bad,” Tugger complains, frowning at Munk while he coughs into his fist.
“I wasn’t eavesdropping,” Munk argues, trying to affect guilelessness. He lowers his hands and interlocks them behind his back. “I’m just… standing here.”
Tugger fixes Munk with a look that makes him fairly certain the next time he finds the little rascal listening in on a private conversation he’ll be hearing that line again.
“Play nice, you two,” he orders mildly, intent on getting back to his work while Skimble is distracted. “And stay away from the kittens’ den until I’m done in there.”
“When’s he going to be done?” Munk hears Misto ask Tugger as he heads off.
“I dunno,” Tugger whispers back. “A million years, probably.”
~
Munk is only left to the indignity of his task for a grand total of five minutes before Skimble chases him down.
“Well, this place has seen better nights,” the railway cat comments as he comes strolling into the kittens’ den clearing, thumbs hooked into his overalls.
Munk looks up from the metal pole he’s trying to wedge into a patch of dirt. “I’m… close to being done,” he blatantly lies, placing both of his palms atop the pole and trying to brace his weight against it.
“You’re… making some sort of tunnel, I assume?” Skimble figures, toeing a pile of metal poles. “To expand the den?”
“Yes,” Munk grunts.
Skimble doesn’t immediately respond, and watches Munk struggle for several moments. But then, “Munk, what are you doing, trying to finish all this alone?”
“I’m–” Munk leans off the pole, irritation spiking when it immediately falls over with a clunk. “This is my job, Skimble.” He waves his paws tightly as he turns, gesturing down at the trash scattered at their feet. “I’m trying to do it.”
“All by yourself,” Skimble repeats. “Munk, no one could do all of the preparations for heat season all on their own.”
“Macavity did!” Munk exclaims. When Skimble just raises an eyebrow at him in response, he frowns and bends over to pick up his pole, feeling stupid and childish.
“Macavity was magic, Munk.”
“I know that.”
“You aren’t.”
“I really know that!” Munk barks that time, gesturing at the mess of poles and tarp again.
Skimble eyes him for a moment, then sighs, paws dropping from his overalls to cross over his chest. “I remember when I first came to the Yard, I was very impressed with your brother,” he tells Munk, a crooked smile on his face. He sits on the edge of the broken-desk den. “I’d never met a magical cat before. Now there’s a task master, I had thought about him. No manners to speak of, but a cat who got things done.”
Munk snorts. If the rumors he’s been hearing about his brother are true, then that trait in particular has not changed at all. A cat who gets things done, for sure.
For good or ill.
Munk rubs his face and sits down next to Skimble. “And then there’s me,” he admits, lifting his paws to gesture at himself before plopping them down atop his thighs. The second-eldest. The backup. The spare.
“Do you remember what you told me, right after he left?” Skimble asks.
Munk does. He’d been terribly burned in the aftermath of Macavity’s betrayal-then-departure, and just as horrified and as stressed as everyone else. But the thought that had been relentlessly circling him while he’d been stuck in his sickbed still hangs around to haunt him. “I’d wondered if all the responsibility drove him over the edge.”
“And do you remember what I told you then?”
“’Bullshit’,” Munk reluctantly quotes back at him.
Skimble leans back. “The way I see it, there’s two possibilities here. One, you’re right and Macavity took on too much work, and snapped in a way that’ll never be fixed. Two, I’m right and there was something wrong with him from the start. Something he was hiding from the rest of us.”
“Macavity was an ass,” Munk says for what feels like the thousandth time. “But I never once thought he–”
“That’s what he wanted you to think, Munk.”
“No,” Munk protests, lifting his head. “No,” he repeats with feeling. “Because here’s what actually happened: one of two things. One, I knew my brother; I knew him better than anyone did and I missed all the signs that he was struggling. Or two, I never knew him at all.” Munk looks over at Skimble, anguished. “Never.”
“Either way, he was keeping things from you, Munk. And either way, there’s no getting him back.” Skimble looks at Munk for a long moment; throat too tight to speak, Munk drops his head back into his hand. “And the way I see it? If you’re right, pushing yourself in the same way he pushed himself –when your limits aren’t as far as his– is a bad idea. Thus, you need help. If I’m right, then to be perfectly honest, we’re better off without him and with you, regardless of how fast you can work.” He pauses. “Thus –still– you need help.”
Munk remains silent.
“No one is measuring you up to Macavity but you, Munk,” Skimble continues.
“That’s not true,” Munk scoffs. He knows perfectly well his status as tribe leader is symbolic at best; the inner tribe used to have a competent, experienced cat at the helm of things not a few months ago, and now they have him. He knows perfectly well that the tribe supports him and his transition into leadership, but he’s sure everyone is very aware of what Munk is and what he isn’t. It would be hard not to.
“It really is,” Skimble insists though. “After everything that happened, nobody would prefer him to you, and there are other cats in the Yard who would frankly love to help you with these things.”
“The others are busy. They have their own problems without me dumping mine on them.”
“I’m not busy right now.”
Munk sighs. “Skimble, I need… I need to be able to do this myself. Not that I don’t appreciate it, but this is my job.”
Deuteronomy chose him. Not Dewey as the eldest cat or Augustus as their most experienced fighter, but he chose Munk. Because there’s a legacy at hand here that Macavity failed to live up to, for… for whatever reason. Munkustrap must step up. There’s no other option here.
But Skimble continues. “You do too much already. You think Deuteronomy did everything alone when you and Macavity were small? I doubt it. And even Macavity handed out tasks when the need took him, Munk.” He smiles, and adds, “Watching your little brother is already a full-time job, in my opinion. Maybe more than that.”
Munk snorts, rubbing his face with worn-out amusement. “It’s really more of an hour-by-hour thing these nights,” he jokes weakly. “I hear screaming in the clearing, I go sort out whatever he’s gotten up to, and then when I leave I get a few hours of peace until it starts again.”
“Well,” Skimble says. “Maybe if we work fast together, we’ll be able to finish this thing up before he implodes again.”
Munk lifts his head and begrudgingly gazes out over the mess of poles and tarps. With a sigh, he wonders to himself if his pride is really worth a bunch of kittens sleeping out in the cold for the next couple months.
“Okay,” Munk gives in, heaving to his feet. “But just this one thing, Skimble.”
He (graciously) ignores Skimble rolling his eyes as he stands.
~
“It really is fascinating,” Skimble is saying later that night, sitting with Munk on the grating for a Jenny-imposed ‘break’. Munk looks over at him, then follows his gaze to where Misto and Tugger are playing some hopping game or another, prancing over big circles drawn on the concrete under their feet (with the chalk that Tugger is supposed to be grounded from, because he keeps using it on the crates).
Tugger is wobbling on one foot a bit away from Misto; Misto’s also on one foot, but despite balancing on his toes, he’s standing strong. Misto says something to Tugger, brow furrowed, and Tugger drops from his pose and position to scamper over to Misto’s side. He points down at the circles at Misto’s feet, and Misto tucks his chin in to watch him gesture. They exchange a few words, and then Tugger quickly returns to his spot, popping up on one foot again.
“Told you, he’s different with Misto,” Munk says. “I used to try and keep him within grabbing distance as often as possible because he’d get into so much trouble, but these nights he’s too busy scampering after Misto to misbehave.” He shrugs, a little wry. “Usually at least.”
“The only times I’ve ever seen him play with other kittens is when challenges are involved,” Skimble replies. “I always felt bad for little Alonzo. They’re nearly the same age, but Tugger almost never plays with him. He must be lonely.”
“The older cats play with him sometimes.” Munk twists to eye where Alonzo is currently wiped out on the crates, limbs sprawled out and belly up. “And he almost always makes friends with the visiting colony kittens.”
“That’s not the same thing,” Skimble insists. “He just… never seems to care about the cats around him. Even you, Munk. I remember how he reacted when he found out you were hurt when Macavity left. Just… business as usual.”
“He’s just not affectionate,” Munk repeats. “And he never actually saw me until I got better.” He hadn’t wanted to scare little Tugger, with all those blotchy red burns and sickly white patches of bared skin. He’d been a sight. He’s sure Tugger never knew exactly how bad it was; that situation had been frightening enough without Munk adding his own zombie-like appearance to the pile.
“Even so,” Skimble insists. “How long has Misto been here?”
“Not yet a month,” Munk informs him, and Skimble makes a thoughtful ‘hmmm’ sound in response, trailing off into silence as they watch the kittens play.
Chapter Text
Heat season hasn’t even started yet and Munk’s about to tear his whiskers out. They have a few nights left before the full moon, but several colonies have already settled in at the Yard for their two-month stay, so every time he turns around there’s some cat whose name he doesn’t know greeting him and asking him questions. Macavity-related questions, mostly, and Munk is terrified he’s going to not recognize some colony leader that he should’ve known and offend someone.
He's also been running around all night, talking to people, moving junk, getting updates on some (reluctantly) assigned jobs. And it seems like every single damn time he passes through the clearing someone has to hold him up about something.
He’s currently in the middle of an extremely long-winded conversation with Alonzo’s eldest aunt about how he’s doing. He can’t imagine she actually cares, as it’s not like she –or any of her siblings– come visit her nephew throughout the year, a small gesture that would probably make Alonzo die of happiness. He gazes out over the clearing as he explains to her that, no, Alonzo still hasn’t made many friends, as there aren’t many kittens his age in the Yard full-time right now; he’s passively searching for Tugger since he knows she’ll probably bring him up.
His gaze falls on Misto instead, who’s been lying on his belly and staring captivatedly at the ground for… at least an hour now; Munk passed him earlier in the night doing the same thing. He’s moved a little, Munk’s pretty sure. A couple tail-widths at most.
Watching Misto lie there with only mild curiosity, he continues to endure the lecture about Alonzo’s lacking social life for at least another three or four minutes.
“Why doesn’t Deuteronomy’s boy ever play with him?” she asks, nodding over Munk’s shoulder. Munk twists to watch Tugger trot over to Misto, crouching down beside the reclining kitten and peering at whatever Misto’s been watching so intently for Everlasting-knows-how-long. Probably a bug, Munk concludes when Tugger lies down silently to join him. An hour is a long time to watch a bug, but whatever keeps Misto happy, he supposes.
“Tugger and Alonzo don’t get on terribly well,” Munk says, turning back around. “Tugger has a big personality.”
Like a summoning, as soon as those words are out of Munk’s mouth, he hears Tugger distantly say, “This is boring.”
He turns just in time to watch Tugger push up onto his elbow and flick his fingers at the ground, presumably sending Misto’s bug flying. Munk sighs as Misto jerks suddenly to his knees, eyes wide. He looks at the ground, then up at Tugger, then at the ground again.
Then his shoulders slump, and he begins to cry. Loudly.
Good work, Tugger, Munk thinks to himself while Misto throws his head back with unusually intent tears for something so little, but the little guy is… sensitive.
Munk’s not that surprised by such a severe reaction, but he is taken aback when Misto proceeds to wail, “I hate you! I hate it her-r-r-re!” with his face scrunched in misery and little shoulders heaving with each shuddery breath, picking up pitch and volume and speed as he continues to sob. “I wanna go home, I miss my mo-ooom!”
Tugger clearly had been expecting this reaction even less than Munk had. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” he natters at Misto as he scrambles on four paws over to his friend and tries to nuzzle their cheeks together, which of course only makes Misto cry harder.
“I’m sorry,” Munk dismisses himself distractedly to Alonzo’s aunt, who is now watching the theatrics along with quite a few nearby cats. He doesn’t blame them; Misto is approaching a noise more like a shriek than a cry as his personal space is getting assaulted. Munk hustles over to the pair, briefly eyeing their growing audience. “Tugger, knock it off!” he snaps at his brother as he hurries, with a harshness that accomplishes exactly nothing.
He grabs Tugger by the scruff and hauls him off of Misto as soon as he’s close enough, tossing him to the side. Munk kneels before Misto, who immediately brings up his arms to cross over his chest, paws plastered over his neck like Tugger had hurt him or something. Munk lifts his paws somewhat helplessly as Misto continues to wail even with Tugger gone, eyes screwed shut.
“Misto,” Munk says, not certain if touching the little kitten will at all help right now. “Misto?”
Misto keeps on crying with the same intensity, little hiccupping breaths between each rapidly shortening wail; it’s starting to sound like he’s not getting enough air. And of course Munk is left a bit frightened that he may choke or something, and clenches and unclenches his hovering fists with nerves as he watches the little guy shriek.
“Misto, it’s alright,” he says in a voice that definitely sounds more panicked than reassuring. “It’s okay, you need to calm down.”
Munk looks up, terrified, but all the nearby cats who’ve come congregating over at the sound of such intense wailing are all watching with the same bafflement as him. He has no idea what this is. He’d been watching the whole time; Tugger hadn’t actually hurt Misto in any way. Doesn’t know why Misto got upset so quickly, doesn’t know what got him shrieking so loudly, doesn’t know why he’s still crying so intently now that Tugger’s out of his space, doesn’t know how to make him stop–
Lost on anything else to do, Munk turns to Misto again. “Misto,” he says as he shuffles closer to the little guy, one hand pressed to the concrete to hold his weight while the other hovers near the hyperventilating kitten. “Misto, I need you to–” he starts, then has no idea where he’s supposed to take that. “Misto–” he starts again, then relaxes only a little when Misto proceeds to crack open his reddened and teary eyes with a terrible shuddering breath.
Munk only has a split second to feel the slight relief. Misto takes one squinty look at Munk before his gaze travels sideways towards the crowd of cats watching him. His eyes blow wide when he realizes he has an audience, and then immediately launches into it again with a wail that genuinely hurts Munk’s ears.
“Misto,” Munk starts again, then recoils when Misto hunches in on himself, clawed hands coming up to hover in tense crescent-shapes on either side of his head. His pitched shriek devolves into gasping tears only long enough for him to shudder a single inhale, and then his hands clench into fists.
“Stupid,” Misto wheezes in a breathy hiss, which immediately flies into a spitting repetition of “Stupid-stupid-stupid-stupidstupidstupid,” at the same time he takes his little fists and starts hitting himself in the head.
“Oh my–” Munk bites out, too shocked and horrified to continue, and immediately closes the small distance between him and Misto, seizing his little wrists in both hands before he can genuinely hurt himself. Misto shrieks in response, a more violent sound than a sad one, and kicks out with his legs, twisting against the grip on his arms. Lost for literally anything else to bloody do, Munk crosses Misto’s arms over his chest, fists pinned close to his shoulders where he can’t hurt himself with them, and hauls the struggling kitten into his lap.
He fights against Munk’s grip, but only for a minute or so. After the little guy has kicked and screamed himself out he slumps in Munk’s lap like a broken toy, completely limp, and that terrifies Munk too. He can feel Misto’s exhausted heaving breaths press against his arms, and that’s the only reason he doesn’t panic entirely.
What… was that?
No one in the crowd Misto’s gathered looks like they have any clue; they all seem as surprised and horrified as Munk is. Even Tugger looks petrified. Munk pulls Misto closer into his lap, feeling unnerved under the gaze of so many cats– he can’t imagine how Misto felt for that brief moment he’d noticed them. New place, new cats, no mother, he remembers Dewey saying.
But what was that?
He’s never seen a kitten do anything like that before– he’s seen temper tantrums, yes, plenty of them, but Misto seemed like he was going to cry himself into asphyxiation for a couple moments there, and– Munk’s never seen any cat hit themselves like that, kitten or adult.
Adelia slides out from the crowd, eyes wide. She slowly creeps up to Munk’s side, eyes on Misto. “Is he okay?” she asks, hushed.
“I have no idea,” Munk responds, probably with the same pinched expression on his face. “Can you please–” He takes a deep breath. “Tell everyone to leave it.”
“Right,” Adelia nods, then turns to address the crowd, calling platitudes and assurances at them until the gathered cats start to return to their spots. She casts only a look back at him when they start to leave, and he smiles at her thinly in response, a thank you and dismissal both. He doesn’t think Misto will want a cat he doesn’t know well lingering around, and she seems as lost as he is in reacting to this, so he doubts she can be of any more help.
Munk scans the clearing; he finds little Victoria sitting by the crates, with a confused-looking Alonzo standing cautiously next to her. Alonzo looks basically just as spooked as Munk is –as everyone is– but Victoria only looks intrigued. Head tilted, eyes on her brother.
He… wonders if she’s seen this before.
He’s distracted when Misto shifts in his lap, pushing up to sit. Munk twists to look at his face, and finds the little guy staring unseeingly forward. With an exhausted little huff, he leans back against Munk’s chest, eyes slipping shut.
Lost for anything else to do, Munk sits still and leaves him be.
It’s some time later that Misto is sitting up in Munk’s lap, watching a group of cats in the center of the dance floor spinning in sync. He hasn’t said anything, and neither has Munk; he’s lost on what the hell he possibly could say to Misto that would engender an explanation of what just happened and not upset him any further.
He’ll talk to Victoria, he’s decided. And Gus. He isn’t here tonight, but he’s been looking after kittens far longer than Munk has.
Munk frowns when he spots Tugger trotting into the clearing from one of the main entrances. He doesn’t remember seeing his little brother leave, and certainly doesn’t remember giving him permission to go out into the Yard by himself.
Tugger stops by the entrance he’d come through, looking out over the clearing with a little plastic cup clutched between his two paws. Munk frowns in his direction until Tugger spots him and Misto still sitting off together by the grating.
He continues to eye his brother warily as he makes his way over. If Tugger sets Misto off again, Munk is going to string him up atop his den and let the little instigator wave there in the wind like a flag for a while.
“I got you another one,” Tugger tells Misto as he stops before the two of them. He sets down the cup just in front of Misto’s feet and takes a step back, brows raised with what Munk would call earnestness on another kitten.
Misto watches Tugger for a moment, then crawls forward to inspect the cup, sliding his arms out of Munk’s grasp. When he picks it up and tilts it back to look inside, Munk spots a little pillbug crawling around the inner side of the cup.
Misto tilts his head at the bug, then gets to his feet, still holding the cup in both hands. “You’re dumb,” he tells Tugger in a voice that’s only a little scratchy, then trots forward the spare step between them and presses up on tiptoe so he can conk the side of their faces together, like he does with his sister. Then he takes his little cup and his pillbug, and without further commentary, just trots off.
Despite it all, Munk can’t not cough out a disguised snort-laugh when several seconds later, a stock-still Tugger starts to purr, so loud Munk can hear it from a couple pawsteps away.
~
After a conversation with both Gus and Old Dewey that had been entirely unenlightening, Munk heads to the kittens’ den later that afternoon, armed with only a piece of chalk and his own befuddlement.
Victoria spends a lot of her time at Misto’s side, but she seems to be a bit more of a budding socialite than her older brother. She’s certainly shier than the sometimes businesslike and oftentimes hilariously blunt Misto, but she’s charmed a lot of the adult cats in the Yard with her white fluffiness and big eyes, and can oftentimes be found getting entertained by several of them with a bit of string or a ball of yarn. Misto, on the other hand, can and will spend hours upon hours sitting by himself, silent.
But tonight, after Munk had found Misto curled up in a ball and fast asleep on the crates –with his little pillbug trapped in its upside-down cup– he had scooped him up and delivered the little tuxedo to the kittens’ den to take his nap in peace. Victoria had followed rather quickly behind, and now that he’s talked to the elders and received zero wisdom for it –all the commentary Gus had to offer was ‘Wow, Munk. I’ve never seen anything like what you’re describing’– Munk is now going to try Victoria.
The kittens’ den is mostly quiet when he arrives. A couple tom kittens are hanging out near the opposite side of the little clearing, batting a ball of yarn back and forth, and the only other kitten hanging around seems to be Victoria lingering in the entrance to the tarp-tunnel that Munk and Skimble had constructed. She’s sitting right by one of the poles, watching the boys only a couple paces away from her still-napping brother within the tunnel.
“Hi Victoria,” Munk greets, kneeling before the little white kitten. She eyes him with obvious nerves before glancing backwards at her slumbering brother. Not responding, she folds her paws in her lap and stares up at him. “I got you some chalk,” he offers, handing her the slightly scratched down stick of chalk, which she takes with an immediate smile.
She starts on her little drawings immediately. When she first came here, Victoria always drew circles and spirals, but in the past week or two she’s started drawing poofy shapes that almost look like they’re supposed to be something. Clouds, maybe.
Munk sits down and watches her draw for a moment. “Your brother seems pretty tired, doesn’t he?” he decides to comment after several moments of deliberation. Brows high, Victoria looks over and eyes him for a moment before returning to her drawings. “I think what happened earlier made him tired,” Munk continues. “Do you think so?”
Victoria pauses in the middle of a fluffy shape that looks a little like a squirrel. She looks at him again and nods quickly, continuing to gaze his way in the aftermath.
“I’ve never seen him do that before,” he explains. “Have you?”
Another nod. And, well… Munk’s not sure if that makes him feel better. He knows their mother was terribly ill and all, but he can’t help but wish she’d given them a heads up about that habit of Misto’s so Munk didn’t have to experience it firsthand without warning.
He thinks for a moment before voicing the next question. “Do you think you know why he does that?”
Very studiously, Victoria tells him, “Have to remind Toffees he’s not stupid. Or else he forgets.”
With that, she returns to her drawing, leaving Munk with… whatever that means precisely.
Munk– well, it’s not like he’s forgotten Misto’s little meltdown from the other night, when the three of them had gone to Munk’s human’s den.
Misto, you can’t think something wrong.
You can’t; I can!
He’d thought Misto was just feeling insecure for being the odd kitten out… but maybe there’s something more at hand here.
If only he knew what, precisely.
Misto watches the jangly cardboard box that Alonzo likes hit the concrete next to him, rubbing his arm and standing amongst a pile of toys. Above his head, Tugger is sprawled over the big tire, feet kicking in the air as he tosses a ball of yarn over his shoulder. It plunks to the concrete next to Misto’s feet, rolling to tap the side of his foot. The red ball that the kittens frequently fight over follows, bouncing halfway across the clearing behind Misto.
It’s nearly empty this early in the night, so Misto puts his paws behind his back and disappears the runaway ball into his palms, bringing it around to his front so he can hold it as he watches. Tugger drops down to the tire’s set of stairs after a bit more wiggling, clapping dust off his palms. “Someone needs to clean that thing,” he mutters to himself.
“We’re gonna get y-yelled at for making a mess,” Misto tells his friend, twisting to look at the strewn about toys.
“Nah,” Tugger responds. Though Misto’s not entirely assured, because Tugger sounds certain of pretty much everything, even when he’s wrong. “I know a place in the kittens’ den clearing to put this stuff.” He bends down to pick up the jangly box, and then a ball of yarn. “C’mon, help me,” he bids Misto, so Misto starts picking stuff up himself.
It takes kicking the hula hoop along like a really big hollow pebble, but they manage to gather all the toys between the two of them. Misto’s pretty sure he could’ve taken a couple more things, like the crinkly-tube-thing that Tugger has pinned between his chin and fluffy chest, but he’d insisted when Misto offered to take it.
Misto’s not really sure why they’re doing this, or if they’ll get in trouble for it –and he really doesn’t want to get in trouble– but he doesn’t want to ask. He’s been feeling really lucky that both Tugger and Munk seemed to have forgotten his dumb freakout the other night, and he doesn’t want to ruin it by asking a stupid question. He has no idea how or why no one has brought it up or asked him about it, and he has a feeling it’s one of those things only he doesn’t understand.
So he won’t ruin it, and just won’t say anything unless he’s sure it’s not a stupid thing.
Though Tugger slows as they’re trotting along to the kittens’ den, eyeing Misto. “What did your mom do during her heats anyways?”
Misto’s immediately put on edge. Specifically because he makes it sound like they were talking about heats before this, and they weren’t. Misto’s been hearing a lot about ‘heat season’ in the past couple weeks, and he’s not entirely sure what that is. Or how (or if) it relates to the heats his mom had had every spring.
He’s pretty sure he missed something. He’s not sure what he missed, or when, but it was probably something. So he swallows and answers nervously, “Her heats?”
“Yeah,” Tugger explains. “She had heats, right? Where did you go when she had to leave for them?”
He makes a face. Not because of his nerves, but because the memories of his mother’s yearly heats are pretty much all bad. The badness would start when her friend would come over to take her away– her friend was also Misto’s father, and she would always expect Misto to say hello to the big scary tuxedo cat.
Then she, Misto, and Misto’s father would leave the nice safe den, and they would walk to a territory belonging to some of Mother’s other friends, a couple of old colony queens who didn’t like him and yelled at him whenever he made noise. Mother and Misto’s father would give them food and in exchange the old queens would watch him while they were gone. He spent most of those nights sitting still in the corner of whatever den he’d been shoved in and making sure not to make any noise or move around too much. And he never knew how long she’d be gone exactly. Sometimes it was only a couple nights; sometimes she’d be gone for a whole week.
He'd hated it.
“She had some colony c-cats watch me,” Misto replies.
“Do you know what colony?” Tugger asks, and Misto shakes his head. “That makes sense. Might not be a colony that comes here. Were they nice?” Misto shakes his head again. “That also makes sense,” Tugger figures. “The colonies that don’t come here are usually the meaner ones.”
Misto’s… glad that all made sense. Tugger doesn’t say anything else, and Misto sighs in relief, freed from the conversation.
“So you’ve never done anything like heat season then?” Tugger voices a few seconds later, hopping over one of the steps to the path that leads to the kittens’ den.
Misto’s shoulders hunch up. Apparently he wasn’t as free as he thought. “Um. I don’t– I don’t know.”
“How long did she send you away for? Just a week, right?”
“Uh huh.”
“So she didn’t spend the season anywhere. Just her heat.”
“I… guess?” Misto pauses. “Not for all of sp-pring.”
“No,” Tugger says, and Misto flinches. “Heat season isn’t for all of spring, just two months.” He hops a little, glancing down at the toys in his arms. “So you didn’t have to move your toys around or anything.”
“She never l-let me bring my toys,” Misto tells him. “She s-said I shouldn’t bring any-any-anything to the colony cats I wasn’t ready to lose.”
“That’s dumb,” Tugger responds. “She should’ve just brought you here instead. We could’ve been friends sooner.”
Misto looks over at the now-familiar path leading to the kittens’ den. “I don’t think she had enough food to give to pay for it.” This place is a lot nicer than the colony cats’ den after all. And there’s already toys here and everything. It probably would cost more.
Tugger frowns over at him, leaving Misto certain he said something wrong. “Pay for it?” he echoes. “Pay for what?”
“F-for… watching me.”
“No one pays for that here,” Tugger informs him. “The colonies just drop off their kittens at the kittens’ den and forget they exist for two months.”
“Oh.” Misto pauses. “Who f-feeds them?”
“The same cats who feed us.”
“Oh.” That… makes sense. Though he still doesn’t really get it– he doesn’t know what heat season is, or why it lasts two whole months.
“You’re making that face,” Tugger says after a few seconds.
“What face?” Misto demands immediately. He didn’t know he was making a face.
“The one where you wanna ask something,” Tugger clarifies. Misto stops in his tracks and stares at his friend, horrified that that’s something Tugger can tell by looking at his face.
“I’m n-not making a f-f-face!” Misto insists, pressing his lips together to keep his wobbly composure. He isn’t making a face, he doesn’t want to be making a face, he wasn’t trying to make a face–
“Fine, fine, don’t cry,” Tugger says, and his exasperated voice frankly only brings Misto closer to crying. “It’s actually just that I can read your mind,” he then backtracks with raised brows and goofily pursed lips. “Like the weirdo twins.” He hops in place, waggling his shoulders back and forth. Dumbly. “Googly woogly.”
“…Googly woogly?” Misto echoes, frowning.
“Yeah, that’s like a magic noise,” Tugger explains.
“Magic doesn’t m-ma-make noise.”
“Well, I don’t know that.”
“And… who are the w-weirdo twins?”
Tugger tilts his head in thought. “Yeah, they haven’t visited since you came here, did they? They’re twins and they’re weird. They can read minds.”
“That sounds fake.”
“Whatever. What were you confused about heat season?” When Misto doesn’t reply, Tugger brags, “I know a lot about a lot of stuff. You can ask, I’ll definitely know.”
“How much does the moon weigh?” Misto has to ask.
“A lot,” Tugger replies instantly.
“That can’t be true,” Misto insists. “It floats.”
“But it’s a rock.” Tugger uses his shoulder to gesture up at the sky. “And rocks are heavy.”
Misto squints up at the moon above their heads. “Maybe it just looks like a rock.”
“Come on,” Tugger huffs, starting down the path again. “My arms are heavy.”
“But rocks don’t f-float, Tugger!” Misto calls while trotting after his friend, kicking the hula hoop along with him. “Not even in water!”
Tugger’s spot turns out to be a shelf in a broken nightstand. It doesn’t have any legs, so it’s the perfect height for a kitten to grab the big brass knob of its single shelf and slide it open.
“This way we can play with these during heat season,” he tells Misto studiously after he dumps his armful of toys into the shelf.
Misto frowns down at the pile of toys after dropping his own burden in there as well. Why can’t they just keep using them in the clearing?
“You’re making that face again.”
“I’m not making a face,” Misto insists, jerking his head up to look at Tugger.
“Whatever,” Tugger responds, adding a nearby ball of yarn to the shelf as he eyes Misto thoughtfully. “I’ll guess. Is it… about heat season?”
“This is dumb,” Misto immediately tells him.
“Is it about the toys? The other colony kittens?”
“No. I just…” He scratches behind his ear. “Why c-can’t we use the toys in the c-clearing during heat season?”
“Because once heat season starts, they’re not gonna let any of the kittens in there.” Tugger points at the nearby path they’d just come from. “They block this bit off so we can’t go in there. ‘Cause it’s all adult stuff.”
“Oh,” Misto says.
“Now the toys are in here,” Tugger continues to explain. “So we’ll be able to play with them.”
“I got that part,” Misto tells him moodily. “M’not stupid.”
Tugger tilts his head at that last bit, watching Misto in silence for a moment. Then he shrugs and turns to pick up another toy.
Three nights before the full moon, Tugger comes prancing up to Munk while he’s talking to a local colony leader.
“Munk,” he says, coming around Munk’s side and butting into the conversation while he’d been literally mid-sentence. Munk ignores him while he finishes what he’d been saying about their security measures in the aftermath of Macavity’s betrayal, continuing to pretend Tugger doesn’t exist when his little brother starts to pat his thigh. “Munk. Munk. Hey, Munk. Munk. Muuuunk.”
Munkustrap smiles thinly at the older tom, who at least looks more amused than annoyed. “I’m so sorry,” he says. “I just– give me ten seconds.”
Then he grabs Tugger by the scruff and hauls him a few pawsteps away.
“Munk!” Tugger complains, reaching over his shoulders to try and grab at Munk’s hand like he always does when he’s scruffed. “Munk! Lemme down!”
“I was in the middle of a conversation, Tugger, did you not notice that?” Munk demands, setting Tugger down and kneeling before him.
“I noticed,” Tugger replies, frowning. “That’s why I was trying to get your attention.”
“Whatever you had to say, you could’ve waited thirty seconds.”
“You never talk to anyone for thirty seconds. Besides, I would’ve forgot what I had to say before then.” The second Munk opens his mouth to reply to that, Tugger adds, “Can I sleep in the kittens’ den this heat season?”
Munk frowns at him. “Was that all you had to say?” He wants to sleep in the kittens’ den every heat season, ever since Munk had to serve Adelia for her heat that one year and he’d stayed in the kittens’ den instead of Munk’s for a few nights.
Munk’s not sure why Tugger usually wants to sleep there, because he spends the heat season nights in the kittens’ den like every other kitten, and he’s always been pretty insistent that most kittens his age are ‘lame’. He complains about being stuck with them during the night every year when Munk comes to pick him up at sunrise. So Munk has never been able to figure out why he wants to be there during the day too, if just the night is such an annoyance. Independence, maybe.
Though this year, of course, it’s not much of a mystery.
“Yeah.” Tugger tilts his chin up at Munk. “You always say I can only sleep there on days you have to help someone with their heat, but I have to sleep there this year.”
Munk raises an eyebrow. “Why do you ‘have to’ sleep there?”
Tugger pats his fluffy chest, looking very proud of himself. “Misto needs me.”
The unfortunate thing is that Munk can’t necessarily fully deny that statement. Misto is, of course, sensitive, and hasn’t gone through a heat season in the junkyard yet; Munk would hardly complain about having an older kitten keep an eye on him, especially after his… episode the other night. But given his tendency towards steamrolling Misto’s personal space, Tugger is not the kitten Munk would’ve chosen for that job.
Unfortunately, there aren’t really any other kittens who he’d prefer, either. Alonzo, maybe, but even if he didn’t feel terrible about forcing Alonzo to babysit a younger cat during the one time of the year he’s surrounded by playmates his age, Misto seems to be pretty hesitant in his company, and –as much as Munk hates to admit it– Tugger is pretty good with Misto.
“I don’t know if I trust you around Misto without any adults around, Tugger,” Munk decides to be honest with him. “Do you remember when we went to the park, and he disappeared himself when you were nuzzling him? You made him so uncomfortable he could’ve hurt himself.”
“Well, you being there didn’t change anything,” Tugger points out, which makes Munk sigh. “Besides, I won’t.”
“Do you swear you won’t?”
“Yeah-huh.”
“I’ll ask Misto every time I visit. And Alonzo. And if I hear you did anything to him, you’ll be with me all night long for the rest of the season.” He points at his feet. “Right next to me. If you try to wander, I’ll use rope.”
That’s not a real threat; Munk can’t just have Tugger with him in the clearing during heat season, but Tugger doesn’t know that.
And despite Munk’s stern tone, Tugger grins at him. “Is that a yes?”
“It’s a conditional yes. Can you tell me what the condition was?”
“Don’t do anything to Misto.”
“Right.” Munk nods, then raises his brows with sincerity. “He’s sensitive, Tugger. Remember what happened the other night when he was playing with that bug? You could really hurt him if you aren’t careful with him.”
“I know.”
Munk pauses. “And if something like that happens again… have one of the older kittens come and get me. Right away.”
“Uh huh.” Tugger points over Munk’s shoulder. “Your guy is waiting for you. Can I go now?”
Munk sighs. “Fine.” Before Tugger can scamper off, he adds, “And I’m not letting you move your toys from our den to the kittens’ den.” When Tugger (already a few paces away) turns on his heels to glare at Munk, he calls after his brother, “If you bring it in the kittens’ den, you have to share it!”
He rolls his eyes as he goes to return to his conversation, shaking his head.
~
Colony cats’ assistance should never be relied upon, Munk remembers Macavity telling him more than once. His voice is as familiar as the moon above, even just as a whisper floating through Munk’s head.. If they offer, that’s one thing. But not only are they just not guaranteed, but you’ll look weak for asking. You’ll make us look weak for asking.
Macavity’s said a lot of things to him that Munk would just like to plain forget, but that one piece of advice, while a bit harsh, has served him well so far. So he doesn’t feel bad when a few colony queens come into the clearing at moonrise on the night before the full moon with breakfast for all the kittens; apparently one of their human families had been about to throw out a meat and cheese plate and the group of them decided to repurpose it.
Munk has a feeling they only offered to share because they knew cats would complain if they handed out the nicer quality breakfast to just their kittens. But like Macavity said. An offer is an offer.
Munk and Adelia spend only a little bit wrapping up bits of salami and provolone into kitten-sized portions; a much faster task than going out and scrounging up food themselves, as it’s Adelia’s turn tonight and Munk had already offered to help her.
Either way, there are a lot of big smiles and even bigger ‘thank you’s when Munk and Adelia pass out the kittens’ breakfasts that moonrise. Tugger is pretty much the only kitten that doesn’t look thrilled.
He officially moved from Munk’s den to the kittens’ den for heat season just last night, and while he doesn’t seem to have any complaints to file, Munk thought he’d be in a better mood at getting his way. He stands at Munk’s side and presides over the proceedings with all the seriousness of Old Gus watching over kitten theatre rehearsals, hands interlocked behind his back.
“Why is Misto sad all the time?” he asks Munk and Adelia at one point, turning to look up at them.
Munk shares a glance with Adelia before handing a meat-and-cheese bundle to one of the kittens. “He misses his mother.”
“But it’s been forever since his mother left,” Tugger points out.
“It’s been a month, Tugger,” Adelia responds dryly.
“Yeah. Forever.” He shrugs. “His sister doesn’t seem sad.”
“She’s smaller, and doesn’t understand things as well as Misto does,” Adelia explains.
“Oh.” Tugger considers that for a moment. “So he’s sad because he’s too smart.”
Munk takes several seconds to absorb that claim, passively handing a bundle to another kitten. “Uh. I’m not sure if…”
“No, that makes a lot of sense,” Tugger says. “He got sad the other night because you were too dumb to understand what he was saying too. I think being smart makes you sad.”
Munk’s pretty sure Misto was sad that night –and perhaps on several occasions before or since–was because he felt like he wasn’t smart enough to communicate properly. But Munk’s not going to correct Tugger on that one, lest it get back to Misto somehow. So he just stays silent, sharing another look with Adelia.
“What’s a stutter?” Tugger asks again after another pause, and Munk twists to blink down at him.
“What?”
“A stutter.” Tugger looks up at him, dropping the thoughtful paw he’d had against his chin.
“Where did you hear that?”
“Is it a bad word?” Tugger asks in response. “One of the other kittens said Misto had one. He seemed sad about it, but I wasn’t sure if it was because he’s too smart again or if that kitten said a mean thing.”
“It depends how they say it,” Munk tells him. He passes another bundle down. “Stuttering is what Misto does when he talks.”
Tugger just stares blankly at him.
“You know,” Munk ventures after a moment. “When he says words or sounds more than once, or pauses in the middle of a sentence.”
“Oh,” Tugger says. “I thought that was just how cats who’re from where he’s from talk.”
“Misto’s from the other side of London, Tugger,” Adelia exasperates. “You’ve met plenty of cats that live further away than he does.”
“Well, some cats just talk funny,” Tugger replies, frowning. “Skimble talks funny; that’s because he’s from Glass-go.”
“Don’t say that,” Munk scolds. “Skimble doesn’t ‘talk funny’, he just has an accent. And that’s not the same thing as a stutter.”
“But his sister does it too.”
“That’s because she’s little,” Adelia explains. “Kittens stutter as they learn how to say words.”
“But Misto knows how to say words,” Tugger insists. “He knows more words than me.”
“Well…” Munk gestures for a moment, grabbing another bundle to pass off. “He’ll figure it out soon enough. They pretty much always grow out of it; he’s probably just a bit of a late bloomer. What did this kitten say about Misto’s stutter?”
“Just that he had one.”
“Was he mean about it?”
“Don’t think so.”
“Do you know who he was?”
“He was orange,” Tugger supplies, which means pretty much nothing. There’s at least ten orange tabby kittens here for heat season, not even counting more golden-colored cats or spotted white-and-orange cats that Tugger might describe as orange. Munk’s little brother is many things, but he’s not exactly observant, and his memory is far from perfect.
“Well,” Munk sighs. “He was right, but I’m sure Misto knows that he has a stutter. It’s not nice to bring it up. So don’t.”
“Fine,” Tugger replies, then lifts a hand rather casually for his share of breakfast, which Munk deposits into his palm. Though he sends Tugger an exasperated look when he raises his other paw.
“You’re not getting two.”
“S’for Misto,” Tugger retorts, frowning up at him as if Munk has insulted his honor. Though that remark leaves Munk with the belated realization that he hasn’t seen Misto come get his breakfast yet. He’d spotted Victoria with a group of other newly-weaned she-kittens that had accepted her into their sleepy, wide-eyed fold without complaint a few minutes ago. But he hasn’t caught a glimpse of Misto at all.
“Where is he?” Munk demands as he turns back to Tugger.
“Hiding,” Tugger explains.
“Because of the orange kitten?”
“No.” Tugger lowers his arm, tucking his breakfast into his side. “He said the noise hurt the inside of his head.”
Munk shares another glance with Adelia, then smiles gratefully at her when she nods for him to go, before passing one of the bundles into his hands.
“Show me where he’s hiding,” Munk tells Tugger, following his brother when he wordlessly starts to trot away.
Misto’s hiding spot is actually a bit impressive. They try to reduce the places the kittens can crawl under the junk piles surrounding the little clearing because they don’t want them to get stuck (or even worse, flattened) if something within the piles shifts. But Misto somehow managed to leverage up an upside-down dresser drawer from where it was lying flat on the ground; a chunk of metal props up the one side of the drawer so that a kitten-sized creature could crawl under and within.
Munk gets on his hands and knees to peer inside the drawer, eyes dilating to adjust to the pitch-black space as Tugger slides onto his belly and wiggles under.
Misto is curled up on the far side of the little makeshift den, knees tucked close to his chest and chin resting on his crossed arms atop his knees. His pupils flash blue as he stares distrustfully at Munk, catching the smallest bit of moonlight from the small clearing behind him.
“Hi Misto,” Munk greets.
“Hi,” Misto responds, so quietly Munk nearly doesn’t hear him.
“Did Tugger tell you we have breakfast out here?” Munk asks, and Misto glances sideways at Tugger when he sits, eyeing his salami and cheese bundle.
“I did,” Tugger answers for Misto, sounding offended.
“Are you not hungry?”
Misto just shrugs in response, which certainly isn’t the no he would bluntly drop on those nights he’d refuse to eat weeks ago.
“Can you come out?” Munk suggests then. “This position is hurting my neck.”
“No,” Misto responds.
“Tugger said you don’t like the noise.”
Misto looks at Munk for a minute, then asks, “Why are there s-so many cats here?” in a voice that comes so close to being teary that Munk’s heart breaks a bit for the poor little guy.
“Their colonies are here for heat season.”
“When is heat… heat season over?”
“Two months,” Munk answers, then cringes when Misto buries his face into his arms. Regretfully, he glances sideways at the piece of metal that props up the drawer for the small opening. He could get trapped in here, if that thing sprang out. It’s… just not safe to let him stay.
“Misto…” he starts slowly, reluctant. “You’re… I can’t let you stay in there, buddy, you could get stuck.”
Misto’s head springs up at this declaration, his expression at first disbelieving before rapidly falling into despair. Without protest, he slides his feet back to kneel on the concrete, head hanging as his shoulders slump and Tugger glares daggers at Munk.
Misto doesn’t say anything as he crawls out of the hidey-hole, though Tugger looks like he has quite a few things to say after following the younger kitten out. Munk pulls the piece of metal out from where it’s jammed, letting the shelf fall back to rest on the concrete with a thunk.
Tossing the piece aside, Munk looks down at Misto standing before him, ears drooping and paws limp. He’s staring down at his feet, but even then Munk can see that his eyes are watery and his lips are tightly pressed together. He’s trying so hard not to cry.
Munk can’t just leave him like this, he’s obviously miserable packed in with the other kittens. Maybe for another kitten he’d just offer a pat on the head and a prayer that they’ll adjust quick, but Munk’s seen what Misto does to himself when he’s uncomfortable. He can’t leave this as is. Someone else will have to watch Misto separately from the others, at least for now.
He’s going to be terribly busy tonight, but maybe Jenny will be able to–
Jenny is out at her humans’ tonight, he remembers belatedly. And Jelly was going to be helping Augustus with patrols this week, since they’re so short on helping hands. Adelia has obligations with her colony after she and Munk finish up here, and–
And Misto isn’t comfortable with many other junkyard cats. Even Adelia would’ve been a stretch. Gus might have time, but Misto is actually quite frightened of Gus, probably because of the scary stories he likes to tell the kittens.
Any other time of the year, Munk would just bring Misto along with him wherever he’s going. But Munk’s spending most of his nights in the clearing; chaperoning, talking to colony leaders, and keeping order. And they can’t just have a kitten in the clearing during heat season; even if they could, the clearing is louder than it is here.
And Misto doesn’t have humans of his own, though while Munk bets his own human wouldn’t mind having another one of Munk’s ‘little friends’ hanging around her apartment at night, Misto had been too scared to enter her home last Munk brought him.
Best Munk could probably conjure up would be Jenny taking him off for a short walk when she returns, but even then she’ll certainly be busy planning out her own heat and tending to her social life. He just doesn’t have anyone on hand who has the time to keep Misto separate from the other kittens.
Later in the season Munk will be less busy, and perhaps Jenny or Jelly will be finished with their heats and will maybe be free more often.
That doesn’t help now, though.
But he just doesn’t have the numbers.
Helplessly watching Misto shakily inhale, shoulders shuddering as he sniffs, Munk steels himself. He will come up with something. He doesn’t know what. But he’ll figure something out.
And… watching him… Munk abruptly has the realization that there may have been a reason Mistoffelees’s mother had been so isolated from other cats.
“I’ll be back in a couple hours, okay?” is all Munk can promise for now, crouching down to hand Mistoffelees his breakfast. Unlike the other kittens who’d taken their meal with cheery grins and loud expressions of gratitude, Misto barely looks at his portion, and when he lowers his paws after letting Munk roll the bundle into them, Munk’s afraid for a second he may drop it. “I’ll take you on a little walk,” Munk promises him. “Just you and me.”
Macavity comes to mind as Munk stands, as he oftentimes does without warning. If his elder brother were still here, Munk would have no responsibilities during heat season: a fact he used to lament. But if Macavity were here, Munk would be free to take Misto off wherever in the Yard during the night. His den, or maybe one of the dancing spots. Somewhere quiet. Somewhere he wouldn’t be so miserable.
We’re a tribe, Munk thinks to himself, pained. We’re supposed to support each other.
Maybe, he figures on a particularly thin string of hope while he finishes breakfast with Adelia and packs up to return to the clearing, maybe when he comes back later Misto will have adjusted a bit.
Notes:
[narrator voice] when he comes back later misto will not have adjusted a bit
Chapter 7
Notes:
I forgot to say this when actually posting this chapter, but this one was a day early because I thought I as going to be busy Saturday afternoon!
Chapter Text
Misto still doesn’t get what heat season is about. But he knows he hates it.
There are so many kittens here.
So. Many.
Before it was just him, Vicky, Alonzo, and Tugger– sometimes other kittens would be around, from visiting colonies or just in the Yard for a couple nights for Jenny’s dance lessons, but this is– there are so many kittens in the kittens’ den that Misto can’t even count them all.
The other night when Munk spent a few hours hanging out alone here, he’d constructed this weird tarp… tube… thing coming off the entrance to the kittens’ den that Misto didn’t understand the purpose of until cats started pouring into the junkyard by the dozen a few nights ago. There are so many kittens here that they all don’t fit in the normal broken-desk den.
Tugger had said heat season starts on the full moon, but it’s not even the full moon yet, it’s the night before. And it didn’t get really bad until last night, when a bunch of toms had come by and moved a big piece of metal from one of the piles so that it blocked off the one single entrance to the kittens’ den clearing, trapping them all in here together. So there’s basically nowhere to hide from all of the yelling and jumping and pouncing and screaming and chasing.
It's not even the first night yet. Misto can’t even say he’s got part of one night done and over with.
Victoria had made friends with some of the littler kittens basically right away, because she’s normal and not wrong, and all the other kittens here seem to be having lots of fun: playing and yelling and napping together in piles. Misto’s not sure what he’s doing wrong. Maybe his ears don’t work right. Or his eyes. But whatever it is, he’s clearly just too wrong to enjoy any of it.
Normally Misto wakes with the rising sun that cuts through the sideways cracks in the broken-desk den, but last sunrise he’d been forced to take a little spot under the tarp-thing instead, because all of the spots in the broken desk he’d usually sleep in were taken by the time he laid his head down. Which wasn’t that bad or anything; Misto knows how to share. But then some tussling kittens right near his head woke him up before the moon even rose. He couldn’t get back to sleep with all of the shuffling way too close to him, so he’d left the den hoping to find some peace and quiet out under the setting sun.
Of course with all of the commotion inside the den, he was hardly the only kitten to do that, and seemingly half of the kittens had exited the den right after he did. Which is when the screaming and running and jumping started. He’d spent a long while sitting up against the base of one of the junk piles, hands plastered over his ears and flinching every time a kitten ran past too close to him.
But as the sun set and the rest of the kittens got up to start playing and yelling and running around, it just got… unbearable, even with his ears covered. Like his head was going to explode in a million pieces of confetti and he’d never be able to put it back together again. So he’d found a hiding spot within a drawer, and it was better in there. No one moving around. Dark. A little quieter, with the shrieks and laughter of the other kittens muffled by wood. Tugger had found him while he’d been initially wedging a piece of junk underneath the dresser so he could fit inside, and had joined Misto once he’d managed it.
Misto hadn’t minded Tugger joining him. He didn’t even make fun of Misto when he explained about all of the noise hurting his head, and the two of them had sat in peace for a while there. Then the cats with breakfast came, and Tugger told Misto he’d go get them food. But he came back with Munk, and Munk had made Misto come out.
I can’t let you stay in there, buddy, he’d said. You could get stuck. As if that were a bad thing. As if Misto wouldn’t happily choose being stuck in there compared to being stuck out here. And then after promising to take Misto on a walk later and passing over the night’s breakfast portion, he just leaves.
Clutching a bundle of salami and cheese in his hands, Misto twists to look back at the pile of junk that the drawer is sticking out of. Munk threw that piece of metal Misto’d used to jack the drawer up that way. Maybe Misto could find it again. He sniffs; he can’t spot it right now, but that’s because his eyes are blurry.
…But he shouldn’t. Mother told him to behave. And Misto’s been trying so hard to make sure the junkyard cats don’t figure out he’s wrong. He can’t.
He’d just wanted it to not be so loud.
It’s not even the first night of heat season yet.
Misto plops to sit, sniffing again. He can’t cry. If he starts crying, he’s not going to be able to stop, and he won’t be able to explain to anyone why he’s doing it.
A group of she-kittens run past as they chase after a ball of yarn, and Misto flinches, a shaky wet noise escaping his mouth before he can trap it in. He only realizes that Tugger is still standing next to him when one of the girls yells, “Move, Tugger!” as she darts past.
“Whatever,” Tugger mutters in her direction, swaying sideways a bit.
Misto keeps his eyes on Tugger’s feet; he tries to focus on the stripes on his ankles to stay calm, like how spotting in ballet stops you from getting dizzy. But his eyes keep filling with tears even as he keeps blinking, and he has to scrunch them closed when they start to spill, hot on his cheek and cold on his jaw.
“Misto,” Tugger says after another moment, voice weird-sounding. “I’ll be right back.” Misto doesn’t open his eyes, even when Tugger adds, “Don’t move.”
No need to worry about that. Misto sits there in silence for several moments, squinting blearily down at his breakfast bundle. He’s hungry, but…
Eating and crying never mix, Misto remembers Mother telling him once, smiling at Misto as she stretched out in their small alcove of a den. He remembers it vividly enough that this clearing full of shrieking kittens feels less-real in comparison. The shafts of moonlight drifting in from the small entrance. The yellow sparkle in her eyes, gleaming in the darkness. Her foot nudging the matching ball of yarn to the one Misto’d had wrapped up in his arms. Safe and familiar and hidden. Except for babies, like your sister. She’d gestured at little baby Vicky curled up in the far corner of the den, covered in a mountain of blankets. They can practically do both at the same time.
How come? Misto had asked, eyes wide.
Because their bellies are bigger, Mother had told him, curling a hand under her chin with a smile. And their sadness is smaller.
Misto’s sadness is big enough he’s pretty sure it would dwarf the whole junkyard if cats could see it. If Mother had never gotten sick, he and Vicky could still be in that den with her. Quiet. And alone. Just them. No scary cats and no loud kittens and no confusing secret rules and no heat season and no kittens’ den. Just them.
Misto startles when he finds a couple cats have wandered up close– not playing, just looking at him. He flinches a bit, ears flattening as he sniffs and shuffles a bit away. He doesn’t want to play or talk or answer questions– maybe they’ll leave him alone.
But when he moves away, the nearest one, perched on her four paws, comes crawling closer.
“Hi,” she says, and there’s something about her eyes or her voice or scraggly coat that bothers Misto. He thinks she’s trying to be nice. Maybe? Junkyard cats are usually nice, but these are colony cats. He thinks. Maybe. She looks down at the bundle in his lap as she strays closer. “Can I have that?”
Misto doesn’t reply, thrown by the question and frustrated by her presence. Does she mean the breakfast? He doesn’t know why she’s asking for his; she’s probably already eaten her own. But before Misto can even begin to think about how to respond, she slides into his space and pops up onto her feet, pulling Misto’s breakfast bundle straight out of his hands, at first slow and then prancing away once she has her paws on it.
Misto swipes at one of his eyes with his newly freed arm, a bit baffled. She’d just taken it. Why… did she ask if she was going to just take it?
Does saying nothing when a cat asks to have something mean yes? Or maybe he did something with his face that made her think he wanted her to have it? Her friends laugh when she trots backwards towards them, like something funny has happened.
…Was he supposed to try and stop her from taking it?
“Hey,” a voice calls; Misto looks over and finds Tugger returning from wherever he’d been, frowning at the trio of kittens. “That’s not yours,” he says to the she-kitten, passing right by Misto without a glance. “Give it.”
The trio scatter a bit at that order, darting back and away a few steps. The biggest of the three, a bluish tabby, circles back towards Misto, behind Tugger; when Tugger trots towards the she-kitten with Misto’s breakfast, she laughs and tosses it over Tugger’s head, to her friend. Tugger twists around to follow the bundle with his eyes, scowling at the bigger kitten.
“Give it,” Tugger repeats to this bigger kitten, only half facing him– as if ordering a bigger older kitten to do something they don’t want to do will work.
“He wasn’t eating it,” the bigger kitten responds, holding the bundle in one wide paw. Around them, the other playing kittens begin to slow and turn at the budding confrontation; Misto curls tighter into his ball, wrapping his arms around his knees nervously. He didn’t mean– was he supposed to stop that she-kitten from taking it? He didn’t mean to cause problems for Tugger.
“Don’t care,” Tugger says. “It’s not yours.”
“So?” The bigger kitten holds up the bundle, eyeing it. “You can come and take it, if you want.”
“Tugger,” Misto breathes, watching the two toms with fear. Tugger’s big, but he’s not as big as that older kitten, and Misto would rather be hungry than have his friend get hurt trying to retrieve Misto’s breakfast.
Tugger ignores Misto, silently watching the kitten as he turns fully on his heels. Alonzo comes slowly pacing up along with another group of kittens, which only makes Misto feel marginally better; Alonzo’s bigger than Tugger, but still not big enough. He only watches with the others anyways, not stepping up to help Tugger at all.
“No,” Tugger decides after a moment. Misto sighs a bit in relief; he’s giving up. “I’m not going to.” But he doesn’t back away, ears twitching and eyes bright. “You must be hungry,” he comments to the bigger kitten, nodding his head at the bundle. “It’s alright. Lots of kittens’ colonies don’t feed them.”
The bigger kitten frowns. “My colony feeds me,” he insists with an urgent speed Misto hadn’t expected.
Tugger smiles, eyes scrunching up. “You don’t have to pretend. The whole point of the junkyard is to help weak colonies fend for themselves, after all. You can have it.”
“Weak?”
“Well, if they don’t feed you...” Tugger ends that thought with a shrug. “But don’t worry, I can talk to my brother about you. What’s your name? Who’s your colony leader?” He trots forward a couple steps, head tilting with curiosity. “He and my dad can probably help your colony leader work something out with your neighboring colonies. You probably don’t have enough territory if you’re not eating enough.”
“No,” the kitten says quickly, looking a little wide-eyed. “No, my colony isn’t weak. We don’t need any help. Here.” He tosses the bundle at Tugger with tight shoulders. “We were just playing,” he mutters as he drops to all fours, slinking away.
“Are you sure?” Tugger calls brightly after him as he retreats, earning no response. He chuckles to himself a bit, rolling his eyes as he turns on his heels and returns to Misto while their audience slowly dissipates.
Misto watches him trot over, a little awed. He hadn’t expected Tugger to be able to just get the food back without a fight breaking out; even in a place as nice as the junkyard, cats fight over food. But he just said things! He said things and the older kitten gave him the food back! Misto didn’t know that was something cats could just do.
“Here,” Tugger says, stopping before Misto and putting the bundle back in his hands. “You should eat that before someone else tries to get their paws on it.”
“How did you do that?” Misto asks.
“What?”
“You made him give it back w-without making him.”
Tugger just shrugs. “Colony cats are so touchy about how they look to other colonies. Even the kittens. They’re just weird. Come on.”
Misto frowns, but stands when Tugger grabs his arm and hauls him to his feet. He has more questions, but he is kind of nervous about someone stealing his food again, so he mechanically shoves the salami and cheese into his mouth as Tugger drags him around the edge of the small clearing. Salami is tasty, and cheese is a rarity even here in the junkyard, but it all tastes like dust. Eating and crying never mix, Mother trills in his head again.
Tugger stops them in a spot on the further side of the kittens’ den clearing. It’s a little bit quieter over here, though nowhere in this whole clearing is removed enough to really avoid the others; a group of toms playing chase nearly run him and Tugger over within seconds of them stopping.
“We’re going to go up there,” Tugger tells Misto once he’s done offendedly brushing down his fluffy chest in the wake of the boys.
Misto looks up to follow Tugger’s pointing finger, eyeing the piece of wood sticking out so high above their heads that Misto thinks an adult cat wouldn’t be able to reach it without climbing. “…How?”
Tugger shifts to point at the nearby pile that slopes up towards the wood; crates and chunks of metal and pieces of furniture form a slope that leads upwards, but it’s a super steep slope and not even evenly ascending.
“Tugger,” Misto says, voice pitched high with teary frustration. “I c-can’t climb that.”
“You don’t have to,” Tugger responds. He then grabs Misto’s left wrist in his left paw and crouches a bit to hook it over his shoulders. He then slowly straightens as he pulls on Misto’s wrist, rubbing his cheek and back of his head against Misto’s side while Misto stumbles sideways into his back. Misto has no clue what he’s doing until he grabs Misto’s other paw to yank over his other shoulder, and then pulls on them both as he stands the rest of the way.
“Tugger–!” Misto barks with surprise when his feet lift off the concrete, arms both hooked over Tugger’s shoulders. He kicks out and then draws his feet up to wrap around Tugger’s middle, clinging to his friend so he doesn’t fall.
“Oof,” Tugger says, swaying with Misto’s weight. He has to catch himself on the nearby crate, leaning forward on it with both paws.
“Tugger,” Misto says again. He’s getting sick of saying his friend’s name at this point. “This isn’t going t-to work.”
Tugger shifts his grip on the edge of the crate, palms flat on the top. “Yeah it will.”
“No,” Misto repeats. “You’re too little.”
“Nuh-uh.” Tugger’s shoulders lower down towards the crate, and then he hops up, hoisting a knee over the edge and pulling them both up. “See?”
“That was just one.”
“And it was super easy,” Tugger obviously lies. “Don’t worry. Every time I do this with you, I’ll get stronger, and then I’ll be able to climb even higher when I’m by myself.”
That’s not completely assuring, but Misto doesn’t say anything else while Tugger slowly makes his way up the pile. There’s not much for Misto do to during the process except think light thoughts and wonder how badly he’ll crack his head if they fall, but Tugger does actually keep his word and gets them to the top.
“Ow,” Tugger grunts when Misto kicks him a little as he climbs over his friend’s head and claws his way onto the piece of wood, eager to hold his weight on his own paws.
He hadn’t been sure what Tugger wanted to show him up here, but when Misto gets up and over the wood, he finds that it’s a piece of scrap, not unlike a couple of the lounging spots in the main clearing. Just smaller.
Misto crawls over the scrap, edging around the side and putting his paws down carefully in case it isn’t stable. He pauses by the wooden sort-of-railing poking out over the kittens’ den clearing and pushes up on his knees to peer down, watching the yelling and playing kittens far below them. For a moment he wonders if adults feel like this. So high up that little kittens and all their noise and fussing seem small.
If that’s the case… he can’t wait until he’s an adult, Misto figures, smiling. He twists to aim that smile over at Tugger, and finds his friend flopped on his back near the spot where they’d climbed up, arms sprawled out and breathing a little heavily.
Misto pushes off the railing and crosses over to him, his heart in his chest feeling a little too big for his skin. He stops at Tugger’s side, smiling down at him; when Tugger catches sight of Misto’s expression, he returns it with his own wide grin, pushing up into it when Misto bonks their foreheads together.
“I told you it’d be easy,” Tugger says when Misto straightens. Misto rolls his eyes and plops back to sit, sliding his paws behind his back. It takes barely a thought to disappear Tugger’s favorite red ball into his palms, and comes even easier to lift the ball over his head and chuck it down onto Tugger’s stomach. Misto barks a delighted laugh when his friend jackknifes off of the scrap with a funny ‘oof!’ while the ball bounces into the air.
Tugger recovers quickly, and Misto laughs again at his delighted expression and rapidly dilating pupils upon catching sight of the bouncing ball. He clamors onto his paws to follow Tugger towards the other side of the scrap, the both of them scrambling to catch the ball, giggling and yelling the whole way.
When Munk returns to the kittens’ den later that night, Misto is nowhere to be seen.
Admittedly he’s later than he’d promised he’d be, which he feels terrible about, but there had been a fight in the clearing at about moonhigh. After spending several hours mediating between the two toms’ colony leaders over what to do with the pair of idiots, Munk is… beginning to realize why Macavity was always so brutal in his dealings with the colony cats.
So he returns with Augustus to deliver the kittens’ dinner, grabs a couple portions for Tugger and Misto as soon as the three of them drop down into the blocked off kittens’ clearing, and promptly discovers that Misto is nowhere.
Tugger is also nowhere.
At first he thinks the two scamps just propped that drawer right back up as soon as Munk had left and spent their night hiding in there, but when Munk crosses to the far side of the clearing and stoops down to check, the drawer is as he left it.
Then he figures the duo found another place to hide. Exasperated, but unable to be angry about it, Munk spends several moments slowly pacing the edges of the junk piles that surround the kittens’ den clearing while Gus and Augustus get mobbed, searching for where the two kittens tucked themselves away.
He walks past their spot twice; he’d had his head tilted the wrong way.
He only finds them when he happens to look up while walking past one of the smaller piles, and finds Tugger’s tail a couple of whisker-lengths away from his nose.
Munk tilts his head up and peers at the wooden frame Tugger’s tail is sticking out from under. It’s about level with his head; how did Tugger get so high? His brother is a good climber for his age, but he sure can’t fly. He peers down and then side-to-side at the pile, and finds an assembly of boxes and furniture ascending in a rather steep and uneven slope from Munk’s toes to just above his ears. He steps up on the lowest piece –a metal tin– and tilts his chin up to see above the wooden frame.
There, he finds two still and slumbering kittens resting atop a fairly sizable piece of scrap, nearly completely hidden by that wooden frame. Angled itself, the scrap leads up into the slope of the pile it’s on, bared to the moonlight and clearly wedged into something or other.
Munk looks back at the stairway leading up to the scrap– deemed so only by a loose definition of ‘stairway’. There’s no way little Misto, now peacefully curled up in the center of the scrap, managed to get up there by himself. Munk doubts he could get halfway up, as short as he is and as high as the gaps between the pieces of junk are. Tugger, on the other hand, taller and stronger with a particular penchant and skill for climbing, could scale this ‘stairway’ with probable ease. Could most likely get up here with probable ease even while helping a smaller kitten up.
A ball of yarn rests in one corner, and Tugger is half sprawled out atop the envied red rubber ball; Munk believes Tugger could help Misto up here, but he’s not sure if Tugger could help Misto and carry toys at the same time. Misto probably magicked them up.
The corner of Munk’s mouth twitches up without his conscious consent. He doesn’t know if Tugger already knew about this spot prior to Munk kicking them out of the drawer, but it looks like they’ve been up here a while. They both certainly look absolutely conked out: the crooked floor must not have stopped them from playing themselves to exhaustion.
With nothing above them, Munk’s not concerned about the two getting flattened, and as much as the little platform is high above the ground, he’s sure any kitten their age could make the hop down without a problem. Reaching up over the frame that coincidentally acts as a railing, he presses a palm to the metal near Tugger’s head and presses down; it seems to be stable. Maybe it could be a bit easier getting up, but if it were much easier, then all the other kittens would probably try to come up here as well.
Shaking his head with a smile, Munk sets the two dinner portions down near Tugger’s head and leaves them to it.
They’d put that big piece of scrap over the entrance to the kittens’ den just two nights ago, so Misto’s unsure why they’re moving it again so quickly. The other kittens seem pretty excited about it, though; they gather in small clumps by the door and whisper at each other, skittering away when one of the tomcats assisting in moving the heavy piece of metal barks at them to get back. Misto would assume it’s a post-breakfast snack being delivered, but ever since they put that door up the meal-serving cats have been climbing up the junk pile wall and jumping down to bring all the kittens food, so it can’t be that.
Misto looks over at Tugger when he comes up at his side. “What are they doing?”
“Moving the gate,” Tugger responds idly.
Duh. “Why?”
Misto is distracted when the makeshift door clunks against the concrete ground, a sound so loud it flattens Misto’s ears in caution. The tomcats who’d moved the scrap to the side all relax and shuffle after it’s stable on the ground again, clapping dust off their paws and brushing down their chest fur, while the pair of cats who’d been apparently waiting on the other side of the doorway step on through the cleared space.
The first cat is Munkustrap, who has a pretty big smile on his face. The second cat is an old man Misto’s never seen before, though he’s easily the biggest tomcat Misto’s set eyes on in his life. He didn’t know cats get that big; the tomcat towers nearly a whole head higher than Munk.
The waiting kittens react to the tomcat’s presence with what Misto belatedly recognizes as joy; they squeal and chitter as they scurry over to him in waves, and the tomcat lifts his broad, fluffy paws in greeting as they swarm him. More than one of the kittens forgoes greeting the old tomcat with a hug and pretty much just tackle him instead, crawling up his thick-furred sides and fluffy shoulders. Misto thinks a smaller cat would’ve gone down under all of the additional weight, but the old man stands tall with nothing other than a booming laugh.
He seems equally as pleased to see the kittens as they are to see him, and he stoops down to pat the heads within his reach, rumbles out pleased greetings, and scoops up the smaller kittens to toss them playfully in the air before catching them, to laughter and more squeals. Misto could count all of the kittens who don’t go over to greet the old man on his two paws, and that’s including him and Tugger standing here together. Even Victoria hesitantly trots up to the elderly cat on all fours, following the other kittens’ lead and glancing back at Misto only a couple times before sliding into the fray.
The tomcat makes for the other side of the clearing as he entertains the kittens; Munkustrap wades alongside through the kitten-hoard, occasionally plucking too-rough kittens off of the old man and looking happier than Misto thinks he’s ever seen him.
Eventually the old tomcat plops down upon a briefcase that’s near the den entrance, and within a few moments the hyperactive greetings from the kittens start to slow. Some of the kittens scatter to go back to playing, but a bunch more hang around. At least five different kittens are trying to speak to the old cat at once, and he seems to be doing his best to nod along to all five of them, while the rest of the kittens idly crawl around, sniffing, nudging his tail, or settling down to play near his feet.
Misto doesn’t know what’s going on here, but he’s sure he doesn’t get something. Tugger didn’t answer his last question, so he decides that he’s just going to avoid this whole operation so he doesn’t accidentally look stupid.
However, Misto only gets about one pawstep away from his friend before Tugger snatches Misto up by the wrist.
“Tugger,” Misto complains, twisting his arm in Tugger’s grip. His voice jumps in pitch when Tugger starts to trot over to the old cat, dragging Misto along with him. “Tugger!”
A few kittens scurry past while Misto attempts to dig his heels in –probably on their way to return to their games now that they’ve finished saying hello to the older cat– but Tugger is bigger and stronger than him, and doesn’t even pause despite Misto’s best efforts to be as heavy as a rock.
“C’mon,” Tugger says, forging onwards. “That’s Deuteronomy. I’ll introduce you.”
“No–” Misto whines, grabbing at Tugger’s paw with his free one. “Tugger, I don’t want to–”
“You don’t have to be scared.” Tugger glances back at Misto for just a moment, slowing next to the suitcase. “That’s just my dad.”
The old cat –Deuteronomy, Misto guesses– lifts his head after Tugger says that; maybe at the sound of Tugger’s voice, or maybe just at the word ‘dad’.
And Misto stops fighting, a little confounded by that declaration. He doesn’t think a lot of cats know their dads. Misto pretty much only ever saw his own father right before his mother’s heats. And Tugger’s never mentioned either of his parents; Misto had kind of assumed his strange overactive friend had just appeared in the Yard one night, the exact size and age he is now.
“Tugger,” Deuteronomy greets warmly, smiling at them as Misto hesitantly lets himself be pulled onto the suitcase. Several kittens slide away at Tugger’s presence, which Misto watches with confusion. Why are they leaving? How do they know to leave? Is it another face thing?
“Hi,” Tugger greets his father idly. With a sharp tug on his wrist, he pulls Misto to his side. “This is Misto.”
Munkustrap comes up around Deuteronomy’s side, briefly stepping onto the suitcase to slide around behind his father and settle at his right hand. Although Misto actually isn’t sure if Deuteronomy here is Munk’s father. They’d have to share at least one parent, being brothers, but maybe they share a mother instead and Munkustrap’s father is some other bloke.
“Mistoffelees,” Munk informs Deuteronomy as he settles, smiling. “He and his sister are the newest additions to the tribe I told you about.”
“Mistoffelees,” the old cat echoes in a voice that’s so deep Misto’s pretty sure if it were a hole in the ground, you could fall into it and never be able to climb out. “Quite the becoming name.”
Misto’s nose twitches, and he regards Deuteronomy for a moment, feeling itchy under his skin. Then he says, “You’re old.”
Munkustrap frowns, but Deuteronomy laughs, leaving Misto unsure if he said a wrong thing. “Misto,” Munk chides. “That’s rude.”
Misto didn’t know that. He looks to Tugger, wondering if calling cats old is like calling them ugly. There are so many unspoken rules for just talking that he doesn’t know if he’ll ever be able to memorize them all, despite how hard he’s been trying.
“No, no, Munkustrap,” Deuteronomy assures his… maybe-son. “Don’t scold him, he didn’t do anything wrong.”
The old cat drops a hand on his thigh and looks at Mistoffelees, still smiling and ears twitching. Mistoffelees stares back. Sometimes the magic in him does things and he doesn’t even notice it, but this time he’s pretty sure he’s noticing. Something about the old cat in front of him is just different, not in an eyes-seeing way, but in an under-the-skin-feeling way, and Misto can’t put his finger on it until he realizes he’d already said what it was.
“How old do you think I am?” Deuteronomy asks after a moment, lips still quirked.
“Older th-than anyone else,” Misto supplies. And then, lips moving all on their own, “The stars were different back then. Even the sky could be twisted by time, and yet simple skin and blood and bone remained stagnant under its sway.”
Munkustrap blinks at this, but Deuteronomy just smiles wider. “You’re a very talented cat, Mistoffelees. Has anyone ever told you that?”
“No.” Misto smiles a little at the compliment, brushing down his fluffy chest with both hands. He doesn’t really feel like he’s done anything impressive in front of this old cat, but the statement feels particularly sincere to him.
“Misto has many skills,” Munkustrap says to Deuteronomy. “Do you think you could show him a couple of your tricks, Misto?”
Misto’s paws still on his belly, gazing up at the two toms from under his eyelashes in nerves. “Um,” he says.
“You don’t have to,” Deuteronomy assures him with a warm smile. “You can go play with the others if you prefer, Mistoffelees.”
Ears perking up, Misto glances behind him at the squealing and scurrying hoard of kittens scattered throughout the clearing behind him, then turns to Deuteronomy. Tonight so far has been a little better than last night; he and Tugger were planning on going to their new spot up the pile in a while. But a little better only means so much, and it sort of sounds like Deuteronomy wants to take him from here.
“If I do tricks that means I get to l-leave?” he ventures slowly.
“If you’d like we can go to one of the dancing spots,” Deuteronomy offers.
“Okay!” Misto chirps pretty much the second he stops speaking. “Can we go now?”
“Can I come?” Tugger adds, hopping on his toes and bobbing Misto’s still-caught wrist along with him.
“If Misto would like you to,” Deuteronomy confirms with a smile that goes a little wry.
Tugger turns to Misto with that all-teeth grin of his, and Misto finds he can respond to it with nothing other than a grin of his own.
Chapter Text
Munk spends the second half of his night in such a state of nerves he thinks he may be sick.
“You look terrible, kid,” Gus says to him at some point after moonhigh, one-eyed gaze assessing as Munk passes the old man’s spot on the lower end of the grating. He tends to perch there in hopes of flagging down any number of cats to share a tale or two of his with, but on the first full moon of heat season, Munk’s sure he’s not getting many takers.
“I’m fine!” Munk is certain to assure him quickly, pausing in his tracks.
“You’ve passed by three times in the past two minutes,” Gus informs him.
“Just keeping an eye out for anyone I need to greet.”
“You’re pacing, is what you’re doing. What’s got you looking so green? Bad shrimp?” He raises his brows. “Deuteronomy’s visit got you in a state again?”
“No!” Munk crosses his arms tight over his chest. “No, the night seems to be going to plan and all, so nothing to be concerned about there.”
Nothing to be concerned about his father witnessing, to be specific. And then thinking to himself, if only Macavity didn’t go so rotten, I would have had an actual competent cat running heat season this spring. So Munk was already plenty nervous when Deuteronomy arrived just past moonrise, just as the festivities were starting, but–
“It’s just that… he’s watching Misto right now.”
“Old Deut’s watching Misto?” Gus echoes. “We’re talking about the same Misto here? Magical kitten, tuxedo?”
“Yes, obviously, Gus. We only have one Misto.”
Gus shrugs, leaning back. “Shouldn’t be surprised, I guess; your dad always works magic on the shy ones. The little rascal rarely ever goes near me.”
“That’s because you’re always telling the kittens those scary pirate stories,” Munk informs him dryly. “And now you’ve got poor Misto convinced you’re going to morph into Growltiger at any moment and eat him alive.”
“Oh, he’ll grow into it,” Gus insists. “Scary stories are good for the developing mind.” Munk scratches his forehead and sighs. “I’m sure he’ll take care of the kid, kid,” Gus continues, propping his arms up behind him. “He’s only been raising kittens for longer than you’ve been alive.”
Munk fixes him with a stare. “I’m not worried about that. He just said he wanted to see what Misto can do.”
“How is that a bad thing?”
“I just don’t want–” Munk waves his paws for a moment before tucking them back to his chest. “Misto has abilities that are– well, they’re kind of similar– I don’t want to say–”
“Spit it out, kid,” Gus advises.
“I just don’t want him to be reminded of Macavity,” Munk admits all in a rush.
A little anticlimactically, Gus doesn’t look concerned by the idea. “He’s a kitten, Straps.”
“Macavity was a kitten once.” Munk stops speaking for a moment to send a petrified smile to a group of passing elderly queens. “He has abilities,” he continues once they’re gone, “well, they’re similar to what Macavity can do. I just don’t want… Misto already struggles with feeling like he’s different, and I know Dad–” He falls silent for a moment, contending with the tightness in his throat. “I don’t know how anyone could get over it,” he continues after a pained pause, quieter. “Betrayal from a son.”
“Betrayal from a beloved son,” Gus corrects, rather unhelpfully.
Munk twists his paws towards the moon in a silent bid for a bit of seriousness here. Between you and Gus I’m not entirely sure who’s the mature elder and who’s the audacious young tom most of the time, Adelia has told Munk before.
“Kid,” Gus continues when Munk fails to be amused, “Old Deut has got a stronger spine on him than you think, and he’s not a withered old man in need of your protection just yet.”
“I know that,” Munk admits, ears flattening.
“And the kid’s going to have to learn that some cats aren’t ever going to like him, for reasons entirely out of his own control. Can’t shelter him from every dissenting opinion his whole life.”
“No,” Munk begrudgingly agrees.
“And regardless, he’s not going to find that dissent from Deuteronomy of all cats. And none of the queens here tonight are going to be interested in you if you pop all your whiskers from stress.”
Munk has to roll his eyes at that last bit. “Not interested in a queen, Gus.”
“Aw, come on. Surely you’ve got your eye on someone.”
“I’m too busy for girls.”
“No one’s too busy for girls, Straps,” Gus informs him with amusement. “Come on, sit with me for a bit, huh? Maybe you’ll see someone you’ll like. I have a great story about a friend of mine who had the very same problem…”
Munk has to escape now, or else he won’t be able to get away from Gus the rest of the night. “I’m sorry, Gus, but I have to discuss the temporary den situation with Adelia!” he blusters before scurrying the bloody hell out of there.
~
Gus would probably be very smug if Munk told him what a blisteringly happy mood Misto had been in when Munk reunited with him later in the night. Of course Munk has no plans of doing such; the old man has had one too many wins in this life, and he has no need of another. Munk, on the other hand, will take what he can get.
And he’s very pleased to withstand Misto’s cheery nattering as Munk walks him and Tugger back to the kittens’ den; it’s not often Misto is in a talkative mood or a happy one. The little guy doesn’t even seem that down to be closed back in the kittens’ den clearing along with all of the others and their noise.
Munk hurries back to meet his father after returning the kittens where they belong.
“Sorry,” Munk announces himself when he comes half-jogging into the dancing spot his father had chosen to evaluate Misto in. “Didn’t mean to keep you waiting.”
Sitting atop a broken chest, Deuteronomy smiles at Munk as he comes trotting over. “I was expecting to be waiting much longer,” he says in an amused whuff. “Did you run Misto and Tugger all the way back to the kittens’ den?”
“No!” Munk assures him. Though that sounds a little like he was allowing them to laze about. “I mean, we kept pace,” he corrects himself, then cringes a little at how domineering that sounds as well. “They were eager,” he finally amends. “Misto seemed in a good mood. How did it go?”
“‘It’?” his father echoes.
Munk flounders a bit. “Well, you– you wanted to see what Misto could do, right?”
Misto very clearly didn’t suffer unduly during his short time with Deuteronomy, so Munk is left only with his anxiety that the young kitten had been found wanting in his father’s eyes for one reason or another. That maybe Deuteronomy saw the sparkles and the tricks and had thought–
Deuteronomy nods, then pats the side of the chest. “Sit, Munkustrap.”
That cannot mean anything good. Light-footed with nerves, Munk closes the respectful distance between himself and his father and hops to settle atop the chest at his side, hands clasped in his lap.
“Did it go badly,” Munk asks in a small voice.
Deuteronomy looks over at him. No one, he thinks, would count Munk himself as a small cat. But gazing up into his father’s eyes still makes him feel like a little kitten. Get used to it, Gus has advised him in the past. Never really goes away, take it from me.
“Nothing went badly,” Deuteronomy says. “Misto showed me some tricks and then he and Tugger played for a while.” When Munk responds with nothing but a tight nod, he smiles. “He seems taken.”
Munk pauses. “Taken?” It takes him a second to realize– Deuteronomy means Tugger. He’s gotten so used to Tugger and Misto being buddies he’d forgotten a bit how strange it is for his little brother to get on with other kittens. “Oh. Yeah. He liked Misto from basically the moment they set eyes on each other. Can’t explain it.”
“I’m glad,” Deuteronomy muses. “It always seemed like Tugger needed something.”
“Some manners, maybe,” Munk mutters.
“I’ve asked his mother to come visit him more often, but, well.” Deuteronomy makes a whumph of a sound. “You know what Jezorah is like.”
Yes, Munk knows what she’s like. He also counts himself lucky that he only sees her once a year for heat season. As a matter of fact, she’s probably going to show her face in the coming nights, so he’ll have to mentally prepare himself for that encounter. But unlike Deuteronomy he’s not going to sit here hoping that Jezorah comes and visits her son any more than her current annual visits; Tugger doesn’t need any more negative influences than he already has.
“Tugger has been in the junkyard for years now, and yet it doesn’t quite feel like he’s found a place here. At least not one he feels comfortable.” His gaze strays sideways, in the direction Munk led the boys off earlier. “But he seemed very eager to be Misto’s guide.” He smiles a bit. “As well as his greatest fan. I think he might have been more impressed by Misto’s abilities than me.”
“Were you not impressed?” Munk prompts, nervous.
Deuteronomy turns his smile onto him. “The opposite, actually. Which speaks to how much Tugger seems to like him. He has a wide range of abilities. Wider than most.”
“…Is that a good thing?” Munk tries not to cringe when Deuteronomy laughs, a booming sound that’s terribly familiar, but not enough to not set him on edge.
“It’s alright, Munkustrap!” Deuteronomy assures Munk through a quieting chuckle. “You’re not being evaluated here, I promise.”
“I just…” Munk tangles his hands together in front of him. “Want everything to go smoothly.”
“Why would it not?”
“Well…”
If it’s not a thought Deuteronomy has had himself, then Munkustrap doesn’t want to put it in his head. Doesn’t want to spark any residual pain, doesn’t want to plant a seed that may grow to resentment or distrust one day. He also, however, will not –can not– tell a lie to his leader and father.
But before Munkustrap can find some neutral ground between those two desires, his father speaks up.
“…Because he has such a resemblance to Macavity?”
When Munk twists to look over at him in probably obvious horror, Deuteronomy laughs again, this time a short chortle instead of a laugh of warm amusement. No joy to it at all. Munk has to look down again.
“Misto’s nothing like Macavity,” Munk is quick to inform his paws in his lap, voice thin. “He’s a sweetheart. And terribly shy to boot.”
Deuteronomy’s voice is knowing. “I’m not speaking of his personality, Munk.” When Munk responds only with a grimace that fails to mimic a smile, he adds, “You seem so troubled. Why?”
Munk shrugs, gaze fixed on his hands. “Just didn’t want either of you to become upset.”
“Upset? By Misto’s magic?” Deuteronomy prompts. “I’ve seen more intimidating things than a kitten summoning coins in my life, Munkustrap.”
“Of course,” Munk allows, eyes falling shut for a moment in diffidence. “But like you said…”
Deuteronomy sighs, leaning back as he fixes his gaze out on the empty space before them. “His abilities aren’t the same,” he says after a short time. “But there is a strong resemblance. An uncanny one.”
Munk flattens his mouth, then asks despite his reservations, “Do you think it’s possible they’re related?”
“No,” Deuteronomy answers right away. “That seems clear. And magic isn’t passed down by blood anyways.”
“So… do you think it’s a coincidence, then?”
“I don’t believe in coincidences.”
He speaks with this air about him, ancient and knowing and unassuming despite it all, and Munk peers over at his father, once again baffled by the fact that this cat before him has lived a long, long time. Longer than most cats could even fathom, much less possibly live themselves. It’s such a humbling thought that he never knows what to do with it– besides remind himself once again to be respectful. It is earned and owed.
“…What do you believe, then?” Munk has to ask anyways, unendingly curious.
Deuteronomy turns his great head to smile over at Munk. “That he’s a talented young man. Anything else is up to the Everlasting Cat.”
Munk nods and turns his eyes back upon his hands.
“…And that he’s not like other kittens, magic aside.” At this, Munkustrap lifts his head again, and Deuteronomy meets his gaze evenly. “But you knew that already.”
“I’m not sure what’s–” Munk has to stop himself from uttering the words ‘wrong with him’ because he’s suddenly reminded of their interaction weeks ago, when Misto had had his little breakdown on the way to Munk’s human’s.
Misto, you can’t think something wrong.
You can’t; I can!
“I’m not sure why he’s different,” Munk amends, ashamed of himself. “He doesn’t seem to think the same way the other kittens do. I have no clue how to help him. No one does.”
“What about this difference is something to be ‘helped’, rather than celebrated?” Deuteronomy asks. There’s not a trace of judgement in his voice, but Munk grows a touch defensive anyways.
“He hurts himself. Common misunderstandings drive him to tears. He’s miserable here, he’s all but said so.” He flails his hands, a frustrated little motion. “He constantly believes he’s in trouble for something or other that he won’t voice, and I frequently find him hanging back when he encounters something new, like he doesn’t understand but won’t ask.”
“I see,” is all his father says in response.
“I’ve been trying–” Munk starts, because he wants to assure his father that this issue is one that’s being addressed, but he falters when he finds that there’s little he can append to that statement to improve upon it. What has he been trying, besides watching and fretting and making the barest attempts at comforting Misto only in the aftermath of an episode? “Well, I.” he clears his throat, ashamed all over again. “I want to help him. I’m… not sure how.”
Munkustrap would cast himself down on his knees and beg for assistance in this if that were what his father wanted from him, but he asks for nothing and offers nothing as the seconds tick on in silence.
“But, I,” Munk starts after by far too long. “I’m working with him, I am. Tugger is good with him, so.”
He clasps his hands together, and then quickly looks up again when Deuteronomy speaks.
“I do wish,” he slowly utters, and Munkustrap’s all ears for whatever suggestions he has to file, certain that any wisdom he has on the matter will be useful, but all Deuteronomy continues with is, “I didn’t have to ask so much of you.”
Munk blinks.
Then, “What?” he asks, and cringes a bit at how his voice cracks.
Deuteronomy turns his head to look at Munk, brows pinched together. “I forget sometimes how young you are. Or I suppose I indulge in the luxury of allowing myself to forget.” He lifts his great paws, gesturing with them in a manner that looks almost helpless. “I know I’m not exactly what I used to be. And I’d known for a long time that old age had been coming for me.” For a moment he smiles, though it is another gesture clearly not borne of joy. “I told myself, ‘age with grace, age with lenience’. I took things one night at a time. When Macavity was born, I thought I’d raise him to be a leader. That if he were willing, I’d teach him what he needed to know to… replace me, one day.”
Munkustrap’s lip curls somewhat, and he looks away. “What a way to repay that trust.”
Deuteronomy sighs a bit, maybe at that remark, maybe just at the memories. “I hadn’t thought at the time– or again, perhaps I indulged in the luxury of ignoring it… But either way, in the end, Macavity…”
He falls silent for a long time. Munk’s sure he can’t even imagine the amount of pain that could steal such a seasoned and wise cat’s voice. Munk’s sure he couldn’t ever be able to imagine it.
“I just wish,” Deuteronomy speaks up again after a bit, “That I had given you the same time and space to grow into this position before pushing you into it.”
“Pushing me–” Munk echoes, surprised. “You hardly pushed me into anything– I mean, I’m honored, I really am. I– when I was younger, I used to bother Macavity for jobs, do you remember that?”
Despite his efforts, the smile his father sends him is sad. And it– bothers Munkustrap. Some longstanding insecurity in him curdles at the sight. He’s spent such a long time fretting and agonizing about measuring up to the memory of his brother, and he always contended with those feelings by reminding himself of the respect he’d earned from the likes of Gus and Jelly and Skimble. No one is measuring you up to Macavity but you, Skimble had told him not long ago. And Munk would love to believe it, but here is his father sitting before him, literally telling Munk that he doesn’t think he’s fit for the job.
The second-eldest, as always. Still the backup. Still the spare.
“I–” Munk starts, speaking around the lump in his throat. “It makes sense you have your reservations and all, but I really can handle it. I’ve always learned on the go anyways, and I feel like I’ve improved a lot over the past year.”
“That’s true, but that doesn’t mean this hasn’t been hard for you.”
“You don’t have to worry about me,” Munk assures him instantly. He pushes off of the chest, unable to continue sitting still. “And I’m more worried about you anyways.”
“About me?” Deuteronomy echoes.
“Well, yes,” Munk admits, turning to pace. “I mean– I’m not trying to say you can’t handle yourself of course, I know you’ve certainly endured more hardship than I have, and came out the other end stronger for it. But I–” Munk frowns off towards the junk piles that circle this small clearing, lost for words for a moment. He’s never been a master wordsmith admittedly, not even a poet, but some things he thinks are hard to put to voice for just about anyone. “I’m just– I don’t know how you’re to get past it.”
“Get past what?”
Munkustrap flails his paws once at his father as he paces by. “What happened with Macavity!” he exclaims, unable to keep his voice level. “You trusted him! You put your faith in him, your admiration! He was supposed to be the best of us, and then– and then he just throws it all away, and we don’t even really know why? How are you to look at the world the same way again? How are you to look at other cats the same way again? How are you to just wake up every morning and not think about it, betrayal from a son–”
“Or betrayal from a brother,” Deuteronomy adds.
The righteous anger that had Munk on his feet fizzles out all in one rush. He stops in his tracks to twist and look at his father, taken aback. “What?”
Deuteronomy sends Munk that look of his that he’s been wielding since Munkustrap was a boy. That ‘I know what you’re thinking so let’s both save ourselves some time here’ look that Munk– doesn’t think he’s earned?
“I was betrayed by a son, yes,” Deuteronomy echoes with a firm voice, unwavering. “But you were betrayed by a brother.” When Munk doesn’t reply at first, he adds, a bit softer, “Violently.”
Munkustrap remembers for a moment, though he tries not to. The bone-rumbling clash of thunder and flashes of lightning, rain in his eyes and roaring in his ears. The fires. The fleeing silhouettes in the distance. His brother’s voice, and then his own, chartreuse eyes cutting through the gloom.
Macavity, please!
Munkustrap shudders, full body. Not a weakness he wants to divulge, but some memories need to be shaken off.
“That’s not the same thing,” he mutters.
“It isn’t,” Deuteronomy agrees with a tone like he’s not agreeing with Munk at all.
Munkustrap reaches up to scratch the back of his neck– higher up, above the scar tissue there. Like his father said, there’s luxury in ignoring and forgetting. But Munk can’t–
He doesn’t want to ask. But he has to know.
“Did we fail him?”
His voice comes out much smaller than he’d wanted, and he’d cringe if he’d spoken in such a tone to any cat other than his father.
Deuteronomy is silent for a moment, but then echoes, “We?”
Munk shrugs one shoulder. “I don’t– I don’t know. But I’d wondered… these past months… It just seems like there was something I could’ve done. He–” Munk holds his palms out in front of him, staring them down with helplessness. “It would be one thing if it was…” He trails off, unable to string the thought together properly. “But I… I thought I knew him.”
Munk’s aware he’s mostly talking nonsense here, only able to speak half of the thoughts that clog his throat up with regret and resentment and fear, but his father looks nothing but understanding when Munk peels his gaze off of his paws and looks up at him.
“Munk,” he says, in a voice that’d thickened in the bare moment or two Munk had been speaking, “You could spend years and years seeking to understand if the tribe failed Macavity –if I failed Macavity– and never find an answer.”
Munk frowns, lost as to how the tribe or his father could possibly share any blame, but Deuteronomy continues before any questions can be posed.
“But there are mercies in this world. There always are. And the question ‘did you fail Macavity’ is a much easier one to answer.”
Munk… has a feeling he doesn’t want to hear where this is going; he’d cover his ears if he thought it were even an option here. He doesn’t speak; he doesn’t even move.
“Munk,” Deuteronomy prompts with a smile when Munk fails to be roused, only continuing to frown at him. “There was nothing you could have done.”
Munk swallows. Something in his chest and belly tries to rebel straight out of his chest at those words, as if his very marrow is rebelling at the thought. He’s my brother, the dark corners of his very being seem to cry out, agonized through and through. I knew him.
“You’re young,” Deuteronomy continues. “And you already carry around too much.” He peers up at Munk for a silent moment, gaze softened by affection, or maybe sorrow. “Let go of this one thing. For me. Macavity is not a monster of your making.”
But he was my brother.
Munk sniffs, and swipes at his face with an arm. “I’ll… try.”
He keeps his gaze down by his feet when Deuteronomy stands, nearly a whole half-head taller than him and infinitely bulkier. There’s nothing else he can do but plop his head down onto his father’s shoulder when he bundles Munk up into a hug that’s more a wash of nostalgic warmth and comfort than a simple physical embrace. He sniffs and brings up his paws to curl them around Deuteronomy in turn.
It's a strange thought, that some cats grew up and grew old and died all in the luxury of his father’s company. That some never knew his absence in all their lives. Even stranger that one night, hopefully not this one, he will hug his father for the last time and then never do so again.
Ever.
“I am proud of you,” Deuteronomy says, voice low in Munk’s ear. “I’m worried, of course I am. But that doesn’t mean I’m not proud.”
Munk’s sure he’s making a ridiculous wide-eyed expression when his father pulls away just far enough to look at his face. Regardless, whatever is plastered there has Deuteronomy quirking his lips in a somewhat regretful way.
“Clearly I do not tell you that enough,” he says, gaze flickering over Munk’s face as a smile starts to tug on his mouth.
“No!” Munk insists, then clears his throat and pulls away. “No, I’m, I’m good. I mean. I am honored and all, I know you didn’t have to pick me–”
“Munk,” Deuteronomy cuts him off, and Munk falls obediently silent, staring up at his father. “You’ve done good. I mean it.”
Munk has to just nod in response to that, not trusting his voice. Deuteronomy makes a sort of sighing noise, one Munk thinks is more fondness than anything else. He submits passively to it when his father cups his face in his calloused hands, and doesn’t budge while he lifts his hands to stroke over Munk’s head, briefly flattening his ears with his fingers.
“But anyways,” Deuteronomy says after clearing his throat and dropping his hands. “Tell me more about Mistoffelees; I can’t imagine he’s all so unique that I have no advice to offer whatsoever.”
They haven’t replaced the big piece of scrap covering the kittens’ den entrance ever since Tugger’s father visited. Munk said that he –Tugger’s father that is, Deuteronomy– will be staying at the junkyard for a few nights, and Misto can go spend time with him at his old person den if he wants, with Tugger along too. Misto gets the impression that this might be some kind of special privilege he’s not sure how he earned, as the other kittens express jealousy whenever the topic comes up. And from what he’s heard, everyone talks about Deuteronomy like he’s a very special cat.
He wonders if that’s why Tugger never seems to get in trouble. Because his dad is special or something.
Hopefully, Misto figures. Otherwise he thinks they may get in trouble for this stunt.
But like he said, they didn’t replace the big piece of scrap. So the way was open.
“Are we going to get in trouble for this?” he checks in with Tugger anyways as they scamper down the path towards the clearing, towards the thundering sound of many cats that grows louder with each pawstep.
“No,” Tugger tells him, big eyes reflecting the starlight above as they skitter side-by-side. “I’ve done this before, they just put you back when they catch you. Come on!”
Misto laughs and gives chase when Tugger picks up the pace. It grows loud – louder than the kittens’ den; way, way louder– but the way the noise gradually swells as they get closer makes it a little easier to bear. And besides, Misto wants to see and hear everything he can before they get returned to the kittens’ den. No one has told him yet what even happens during heat season, and he’s curious.
Misto thinks the buck is up pretty much the second they break through the clearing entrance, because Jenny is standing right by the entranceway with a couple other queens. But she doesn’t move from her spot even though she must have seen them, and the expression on her face when Misto turns to look back at her mid-stride is only somewhat exasperated as she gazes right back at him.
Maybe they’re not in trouble, Misto thinks, but that thought is immediately lost to wonder when he twists back around.
He's never seen so many cats in one place before. Dozens– on the tire and the junked car and the grating and the crates. Spots that Misto thinks of as being big enough to hold one person boasts two or three each, cats packed in together like those little canned fish from Munk’s human’s den.
Misto slows to a trot while Tugger continues on before him, gazing around. The piles surrounding the clearing tower high above his head, and seemingly every little bit of every little pile is covered in cats. And they’re all talking. Laughing and chattering and some singing by the sound of it, the noise meshing together into a dull roar on Misto’s ears that would make any growling pollicle dog or running car sound sad and soft in comparison.
It doesn’t bother him that much. Maybe because of the slow buildup as they ran here, and maybe because he’s adjusted to the noise of the kittens’ den the last few nights, but Misto’s been in a good mood lately. Ever since he did tricks for Deuteronomy his magic has been magicking, so it’s hard to be sad. Or maybe it’s the other way around and his magic is magicking because he hasn’t been sad. He’s not sure.
But either way Misto chirps in delight when Tugger tackles him out of nowhere– he must’ve doubled back. They go down in an entwined flail and a whoosh of Misto’s heart up into his throat; he shoves Tugger off of him after they roll together and takes off at a run, giggling. Tugger follows of course, and Misto can hear him laughing just at his heels, even over all the noise.
His magic is magicking. It has been for nights at this point, but especially now; they circle the dance floor that feels like a real stage now more than ever while the adults talk among themselves, and Misto delights in the dual misbehavior and allowance, in getting to do whatever they want, in how the air whooshes past his ears and his paws hit the concrete and how Tugger’s breathless giggle follows behind him, steady as anything.
Misto’s own giggle goes so high pitched and winded that he has to stop, and he does so while whirling around to meet Tugger head on with his own pounce. Tugger tries to dodge, but they barrel into each other and go down together, the world swinging around them again and again.
“Look at this,” Misto says when they roll to a stop, though he doesn’t even know what ‘this’ is until he raises his paws in the space between them, breaths panting together, and finds white sparks of… something jumping off of his paws.
“Woah,” Tugger says, the sound almost lost even with their heads bowed together. His pupils go even wider as they watch the sparks on Misto’s paws jump up and then fizzle out. Misto can’t even be confused how he did it. He just did; that’s all.
They fizzle out completely after only a few seconds, and Misto shrugs a little at the abrupt departure. Easy come, easy go, he knows Gus says all the time. Smiling, he jabs Tugger in the shoulder with a paw. “You’re it!” he chirps at his friend before popping up to his paws and peeling past.
“Wait!” Tugger calls after him before giving chase, and then they’re on again. Misto’s giggles are almost entirely lost to the wind as he circles the clearing again, breathless and thrilled. No one has stopped them yet, so they really must not be in trouble, for some reason.
Misto’s giggle crams up into his throat when Tugger runs into him; he scrunches one eye shut and takes the blow with a grunt, rolling onto his back with their combined momentum.
“Do that again!” Tugger demands with his usual toothy grin, hovering over Misto’s side. Misto lifts his paws close to his face and considers them for a moment. It only takes a few seconds of staring, but eventually sparkles erupt from his paws again, this time with more verve and a crackling noise that eeks a laugh out of Tugger Misto’s never heard before.
He’s not sure how he did that either, but he’s got the wiggles in his paws again, so he squeezes out from under Tugger once more. “I’m it now!” he declares, and Tugger scrambles away as soon as he speaks, hauling up to his paws and scampering off as Misto gives chase and as the clearing continues to thunder with noise around them.
Misto’s lungs are beginning to hurt from all the running, but it feels good in its own way, like the burn of a good stretch, like he’s gaining something through the pain. Something big. Something important.
He looks down for a moment while he’s running and discovers with glee that his paws are sparkling again, white bits of light ricocheting off the concrete. The rows of cats blur past as he chases Tugger in another circle, though they don’t make it far before Tugger doubles back and runs into Misto again, sending them rolling.
“I win!” Misto shouts, barely able to speak through his windedness and giggling. “I win!”
“Do it again!” Tugger demands in turn, and Misto doesn’t even have to do anything, just lifts his paws and shows Tugger the sparkles. His chest moves rapidly with exhilarated panting breaths as he and Tugger wonder at the zaps of light that cross from Misto’s one paw to the other, already brighter and louder than they were the last time. “How are you doing that?”
“I don’t know!” Misto admits cheerily, eyes scrunching shut.
But he thinks he does know. The strain in his chest is from the running, and the fluttering in his heart is from the excitement, but somewhere between sits something that Misto’s using to do it, he thinks. Something wedged between the two so firmly that he can’t tell where one ends and the other begins. But he thinks about it a little, and then there’s a pow and a bundle of sparks erupt between them, so loud and bright that Tugger flinches back a bit, and then they both laugh again together, in shock and in delight.
Misto thinks he gets it now. It’s like those stretchy things humans wrap around newspapers. You just have to pull it back, and when it snaps back into place there’s a big noise.
So Misto pulls it. Hard as he can.
And then it snaps back.
The noise comes first, a CRACK so loud that it hurts Misto’s ears like a genuine wound. The noise itself seems to change the air, as if it grows thicker, or thinner, or just wrong, and all his fur jumps to stand right on end– Tugger in front of him turns into a dandelion puff for a second.
Then right after that the light comes down. It doesn’t come from his paws, but down, and it’s so big and bright that it blinds Misto entirely, whites out the whole clearing before him. It stings his eyes, and he has to scrunch them shut and flatten his ears, not sure what he’s done, not sure what this is–
It ends all in an instant, before he can really have a fully formed thought about it. He blinks his eyes back open to find black spots forming in his vision and a dark clearing before him, darker than it had been before.
And it’s completely, utterly, silent. All those cats, all that chattering. Silent.
Then, “MACAVITY!” someone yells, and chaos descends.
Cats immediately begin to scatter, as if that one word means something Misto doesn’t know about. Dozens and dozens and dozens of cats, all running and jumping and shouting as they try to zip every which way– running each other over and knocking each other down, yowls and barks of annoyance scratching through the air as they all try to beeline towards the exits or the nearest hiding spots, by far too many cats trying to move all at once, at a panicked and frenzied pace that terrifies Misto, ears flat to his head.
“That wasn’t–!” Tugger starts beside Misto, but of course his voice is lost in the chaos. Misto looks back and forth over all the thundering cats trying to evacuate, not sure what he’d done. Did he do that?
“I didn’t…” he starts to say, voice thin in his throat. He turns towards where Jenny had been minutes ago and finds her still in the same spot, paws held out as she tries to grab the attention of passing cats. She says something to a pair, brows high, and then points Misto’s way.
She’s pointing at him. Why is she pointing at him?
“Wait, wait!” someone’s voice cuts through the gloom, but the frenzy continues on. Someone else shouts “Calm down!” only moments later, but it’s at least a solid minute before the movement starts to slow a bit; Misto huddles closer to Tugger at his side, who watches the proceedings with a frown on his face.
“Be still!” another voice cuts through the hysteria, the sound of an elder, and this is what gets the cats to slow in their paces, pausing and sniffing and peering about, belatedly realizing that nothing has happened and that they’re all fine. Cats stand in clumps, guarding each other’s backs with raised hackles and flat ears. Misto catches the gleam of claws in the moonlight, snarling faces, and glinting eyes as everyone assesses the area while they gather their breath and wits.
Murmuring breaks out slowly. “What was that?” someone calls out, and the noise rises in pitch. Misto huddles closer to Tugger.
“Macavity–” someone starts to say, and is hushed. Then another yells, “Who did that?”
“Don’t worry, don’t worry!” Jenny’s voice follows, at first barely audible to Misto’s ears and then clearer when some cats hush. “No one is in danger; Macavity isn’t here.”
“It was just the kitten,” another voice says, from right near where Jenny was standing.
And then the eyes of the whole clearing focus on Misto.
He shrivels, paws curled in front of him. He can’t get any closer to Tugger if he tried, but short of hiding under his friend’s fluff it does nothing to keep the glares off of his skin.
“The kitten?” someone echoes. Then chattering starts to break out. Misto looks this way and that at the accusing stares pointed his way. He catches only snatches, enraged barks and snapping fragments like, “Macavity!” and “How did–” and “Supposed to be safe,” overtop each other.
“It’s alright,” Jenny calls again, but her voice is quickly lost. Misto breathes in shakily, clutching his paws closer to himself when a cat comes down from the tire to peer at him, and several more start to creep closer in his wake.
“You did this?” a queen addresses Misto, ginger from the top of her head to the tip of her tail. Misto can’t summon his voice to respond.
“S’just lightning,” Tugger huffs for him though, still frowning.
“Just lightning?” one of the other cats echo. “He could have killed someone!”
“No,” Tugger starts to reply, voice annoyed, but another cat cuts him off.
“The junkyard isn’t supposed to have a magical cat–”
“We were told it’s safe here–”
“–fried just for standing around–”
“I didn’t…” Misto squeezes out, tears brimming in his eyes.
“–control this kind of thing–”
“–trampled someone–”
“–last thing anyone needs–”
“–dangerous–”
“–terrified–”
“What’s your name?” one cat addresses Misto, stepping closer. Another adds, “Where’s your colony, how did you even get in here?” and Tugger’s response is lost on the wind even for Misto.
“Didn’t anyone teach you not to do these kind of things?” another adds from the side. “You could have hurt someone!”
“–terrified the whole clearing,” another adds, only half audible.
“Not his fault,” Tugger barely manages to speak over them.
“–responsibility,” someone says. “What kind of magical kitten can do that sort of thing anyways?”
“Not safe–” someone else starts to say, and Misto only catches Jenny’s pleading voice for a half second before the volume picks up.
Not safe, echoes in Misto’s head as the complaints amplify. Terrifying.
Wrong. He's wrong. They can all tell he’s wrong. He tries to choke down a sob, not sure what’s going to happen to him now. He didn’t mean to scare anyone. He thought–
They all know. He’d been trying to hide it for so long, but they all know, and it’s worse than he even thought. He didn’t know he was scary.
“–another Macavity–”
“–need to take measures–”
He didn’t mean to scare anyone. He didn’t even know he could do that. He looks between angry faces, not finding a shred of comfort or understanding anywhere in the circle of cats that have surrounded him and Tugger. Only snarling faces set in the moonlight and silhouetted spiking fur and flat ears and accusing voices, layered over each other.
They all hate him. Every one of them hates him. They know he’s wrong and they want him gone and they hate him and they’re scared of him and he could’ve hurt someone–
Could he have hurt someone? Could he?
He thought it was just sparkles.
Misto takes in a gasping breath through his tightening throat, eyes blurring with tears. He didn’t mean–
He can’t bear it. Without the ability to summon another word from his throat, he turns and darts between the legs of the nearest cat, running off as quickly as his paws will take him.
Chapter Text
“Munkustrap! Munkustrap!”
Munk freezes in place at the terror in the voice behind him. He’d left the clearing for barely ten minutes to deliver Deuteronomy’s breakfast, and from the sheer fear he’s hearing, he can’t imagine anything good has happened while he was gone.
“Munkustrap!” yells the cat that turns the corner at the same time Munk whirls around; he doesn’t know the tom from Everlasting, nor the two friends that follow him at a sprint from around the corner, but he hurries over to the trio anyways as they all trip to a stop in relief at the sight of him.
“What?” Munk demands on his way over. “What happened?”
“There was lightning!” one of them says at the same time another bursts out, “It was magic!” in near hysteria. The third one explains on the tail of the other two, “Lightning struck in the clearing; everyone thought it was Macavity, but– someone was saying something about a kitten when we managed to squeeze out–”
A kitten, Munk thinks. Then, oh hell, Misto.
“Shit,” is all Munk can spit out. He accidentally shoves past the first tom a little when he hurries past him to run in the direction they came, heart in his throat.
Lightning, he thinks in panic as he sprints down the path. He’d heard a loud noise a few moments ago, and he’d even thought to himself that it sounded a little like lightning, but there isn’t a cloud in the sky tonight. He’d dismissed it as some human thing.
But…
Misto can’t make lightning. Macavity can’t make lightning either.
Though cats learn. Macavity picked up skills as he went along, as a kitten. Munk’s not entirely sure what abilities he does or doesn’t have at this point; he doubts Macavity was eager to inform him of any developments, near the end there.
And Misto scarcely knows what Misto can do. He’s a talented young cat, his father’s voice echoes in his head. Munk swallows as he approaches a bend in the path, unnerved by how quiet it is. He should hear the noise of the clearing easily by this point.
He turns the corner and runs the rest of the way in empty-headed silence, not assured to eventually pick up the buzz of voices near the clearing entrance. He turns the last corner and jogs through the entrance, baffled to find cats standing about on the dance floor instead of settled on the piles, puffed tails and barking voices filling the space.
He squeezes between a few cats that call after him as he goes, but he wants to find Misto first, wherever he is. He can’t help but remember his episode not long ago, how Misto’d spotted the cats watching him in bafflement and immediately started hitting himself. He needs to know that Misto is okay, then he can start sorting through whatever happened here.
“Munkustrap!” someone calls after him, and then, “Hey, Straps!” but Munk forges ahead, looking for any sign of a familiar face.
He hears a familiar voice first. “Munk!” Jenny calls after him, and Munk turns towards her voice to find a rare sight: Jenny holding (a rather cross-looking) Tugger in her arms, hurrying over to him.
“Are you two okay?” Munk asks. “What happened?”
“He didn’t even do anything–” Tugger starts, but Jenny cuts him off.
“Misto and Tugger escaped from the kittens den,” she explains quickly, slowing before him as cats start to turn their heads and quiet to listen in. “They were scampering about in here– I was keeping an eye on them; I was going to let them run themselves out and then take them back before the dancing started. But then they both stopped, and– I’d never seen anything like it.”
“It was just lightning,” Tugger grouches.
“He summoned lightning?” Munk echoes. He’d heard it a moment ago, but having it said so plainly without a doubt makes it feel… he doesn’t know, strange. Harder to believe. Itty bitty Misto with his tiny little voice, summoning lightning from the stars…
“Yes!” Jenny exclaims. “He just lifted his hands and then–”
“Bam,” Tugger supplies.
Munk looks her up and down, and is immediately terrified when it dawns on him that Misto isn’t present. “Where is he?”
“Everyone scattered,” Jenny explains. “But once they realized it was him and not Macavity– everyone was upset, I tried to calm them down– and then next I looked he was gone! Tugger says he ran off.”
He ran off, Munk repeats to himself in fear. Misto can disappear, he could be anywhere.
Some moron seems to take this moment as a good one to file a complaint, and cuts in, “No one informed us there was a new magical cat in the Yard. Wouldn’t that be a prudent bit of information to update us with?”
“Someone could’ve been killed!” a queen adds.
“One of my cats was injured in the panic!” another barks.
“I don’t–” Munk starts, but is cut off.
“One little kitten managing to pull off such a feat– what will he do when he’s grown?”
“All of that talk about keeping the Yard secure this year–!”
“It just doesn’t feel safe!”
“And is the Yard doing anything to keep him in check, Munkustrap? Are you?”
“Where is Deuteronomy, I want to speak with him!”
“It doesn’t matter–” Munk again tries, twisting to peer around the stacks while wondering where Misto might’ve crammed himself– if he isn’t on the other side of London right now…
“And why was he allowed in the clearing? My colony’s kittens aren’t allowed outside the kittens’ den without a chaperone!”
“Munkustrap, we need to know–”
“–your father–”
Munk presses his hands to his forehead in sheer terror, overwhelmed.
“It’s not safe–”
“–tell us–”
“–new to running this place–”
“Take our concerns to–”
“ENOUGH!” explodes out of Munk’s mouth before he can think better of it, and to his utter shock, every single cat in his vicinity falls immediately and utterly silent.
He breathes heavily for a moment or two in the aftermath of his outburst, meeting the wide-eyed gazes of the group surrounding him with matching shock. Then he shakes his head. He doesn't have time for this.
“I don’t care!” he announces to the lot of them. “I need to find the kitten first, then I’ll deal with all of this. Tugger, which way did he go?”
“Towards the crates,” Tugger supplies immediately.
“Okay. Okay.” Munk starts in that direction, pauses in thought, then backtracks. “Jenny, go get a couple of the older kittens from the clearing. I–”
“Is that what this situation needs, more kittens–?” someone starts to complain.
“Enough!” Munk snaps in their direction. “My father is at the lower dens, go speak to him if you truly must complain right this utter moment while one of my kittens is missing. Jenny,” he addresses the queen again. “Go grab a couple of the kittens to help look; Misto’s probably hiding somewhere in the piles.” He presses a paw to his forehead. “I hope.”
“Right.”
Tugger starts to wiggle out of her arms. “I’ll help look.”
“Yes, help me look,” Munk agrees, and watches as Jenny sets Tugger down and the gathered cats start to disperse, dissatisfied muttering flitting through the air. Munk can’t even remotely begin to care right now, and he allows Tugger to lead him towards the crates while Jenny scurries off.
He and Tugger start in the direction he saw Misto dart away, and spread out from that point. Munk calls his name while bending to check in the smaller cracks between the crates. “Misto!” he shouts, bent over to squint at the dusty shadows. “Misto, you’re not in trouble,” he adds on a hunch, but there’s no response.
Jenny fetches Alonzo and a couple of the other little ones, and they begin to assist in the search. Not long after that Gus comes bustling down to the clearing, brows raised.
“Your old man is up to his elbows in angry cats,” he informs Munk, and Munk immediately wilts in guilt.
“I’m sorry, Gus,” Munk sighs, feeling wretched and small. “I panicked– we still can’t find Misto, I don’t even know if he’s here.”
“Don’t apologize, kid,” Gus tells him firmly. “Tribe comes first; it always does. He’s handling it. How can I help? Could probably scare the kid out from where he’s wedged with my Growltiger voice,” he adds at the end with a bit of humor.
“Please, do not,” Munk says. “I have no clue if he’s hurt himself, wherever he is.”
“Alright, alright,” Gus complies, but before Munk can even caution him about bending down with his bad knee, Alonzo’s voice comes calling.
“Munk?”
Munk turns towards the far edge of the crates, where Alonzo is crouched in front of a smaller box, brows high.
“Found him.”
The hesitant look on his face sets Munk’s blood a little cold rather than warming him with relief, and he hurries over at a jog. Tugger appears by Munk’s shoulder as he kneels down to follow Alonzo’s gaze.
It’s dark under the crates, but Munk can just barely spot Misto within the pitch blackness. He has no idea how the little scamp even got in there; the space between the two crates is practically mouse-sized. Misto is squashed as far back as the narrow space allows, knees curled up to his chest. All Munk can see of his face is a smudge of white, but he can hear Misto’s gasping uneven breaths from here.
“Misto,” he says with as much of a smile in his voice as he can, bending lower to be seen. “Are you alright?”
Misto sniffs and doesn’t respond. Munk catches a flash of black that’s probably him swiping at his face with his arm. “How did he even get in there?” Gus says behind him.
“I think it loops around in the back,” Alonzo supplies.
“Try squeezing in that way,” Gus tells him. “I don’t know if the kid’ll come out on his own. I could try my voice…” he adds in Munk’s direction.
Munk twists to hiss an annoyed, “No!” at him, then turns back to Misto. “You’re not hurt, right?” he prompts the kitten. “It’s okay, Misto, you’re not in any trouble.”
Misto blubbers a noise that might have been a word, but Munk doesn’t catch it.
“What was that?”
“Wrong,” Misto supplies, voice cracking. “I-I-I was–” He sniffs with a following sob, then adds, “I didn’t m-mean it.”
“It’s alright, Misto,” Munk tells him, smiling. “I know it was an accident. You didn’t do anything wrong; you’re not in trouble. Can you come out?”
“Those cats s-s-s-said–”
“You just scared them,” Munk explains. “That’s all.”
“Didn’t mean to be–” He pauses for a moment, a brief silence Munk knows to associate with his stutter. “–be scary.”
“I know you didn’t, buddy.”
“Don’t m-m-mean to be wrong.”
“You didn’t do anything wrong,” Munk assures him again.
“Be wrong,” Misto corrects him tearily.
“Be–” Munk starts to repeat, settling a hand on the crate by his head for balance. “Misto, you’re not– you’re not ‘wrong’. There’s nothing wrong with you.”
“Lying,” is all Misto says.
Munk presses his lips together; he doesn’t have a retort for that. I don’t know what’s wrong with him, plays back in his own head, mocking and pitched.
“It’s alright,” he settles on after a pause that lasts way too long. “Those cats shouldn’t have yelled at you. It wasn’t their place; you’re a member of the tribe–”
Misto whines while Munk is speaking; for a second Munk thinks in disagreement, but he can see movement from within the darkness, just more black on white. Misto shuffles over to the side a bit and makes another noise of protest; Munk is concerned for a split second, then realizes Alonzo must’ve found a way around behind him.
For a moment he wants to tell Alonzo not to force Misto out. But then again he really wants the little guy out of there, so he waits in silence while Misto whines again and then starts shuffling on four paws Munk’s way. He scooches back a little to make room for Misto to squeeze out, gasping with his little tears all the way.
“It’s alright, Misto,” he starts to say again. Even as little as Misto is, he barely fits between the boxes while shuffling sideways on two feet.
Munk holds out his arms when Misto comes into the moonlight, basically ready to swoop him up and carry the little guy away from all this nonsense, but with another sob, Misto frees himself from the box and tears right past Munk.
And barrels right into Tugger beside him.
Munk’s not entirely sure who’s more surprised, himself or Tugger. But his little brother stands there, blank-faced, while Misto clings around his fluffy shoulders and sobs into the crook of his neck.
Alright, Munk thinks after a couple seconds of shock. Whatever works. But Tugger doesn’t recover from his own shock and continues to stand there, arms limp and eyes big.
“Tugger,” Munk hisses as quietly as he can, then lifts his arms meaningfully when his brother’s gaze darts over to him. Hug him, he mouths with severity. If Tugger’s going to be mean about this, he’s grounded for the next ten million years.
But Tugger says nothing and does nothing other than lift his arms and mechanically settle them around Misto’s middle, still looking a little like he’d been just slapped in the face with a fish. Whatever. Munk looks up at Gus and flops a hand in yielding surprise. Gus shrugs back at him.
A little sneeze from the crates reminds Munk of what’s been going on here, and he bends down again to peer within. “Can you get out, Alonzo?”
“Uh huh,” Alonzo responds, and Munk watches patches of white disappear as he turns and heads the way he came.
“Alright,” Gus says. “Step one settled. I can deliver these scamps back to the kittens’ den if you need to get to work.”
Munk sighs in thought. “Yeah, that would be– thank you.” He presses on his thigh and pushes to his feet. “Though I don’t want Misto with the other kittens right now. Can you bring him to– well I’d prefer Jelly, because like I said…” He trails off and makes a fist and knocks on his forehead a couple times as he sends Gus a meaningful glance.
He picks up on Munk’s meaning, glancing down at the still clinging-sobbing Misto at their feet. “Want her to check him out?”
“Only if you can,” Munk insists. “Jenny would be fine if you can’t find her. And if he wants Tugger to stay with him that’s fine too. I’ll come for him in a bit.”
“You got it,” Gus says, then steps forward to pat Munk on the shoulder. “And maybe take a bit of a breather before you wade back into things, kid. You look like you haven’t slept in weeks.”
“You could express concern for my well-being without telling me I look like crap,” Munk reminds him with admittedly some amusement and a lot of exhaustion.
“I could,” Gus agrees. “But I feel like you should know.”
Munk sighs. “Alright. Thank you. Not– not for the telling me I look like crap, the other parts. I’ll go talk to my dad.”
“You got it, champ. Alright!” Gus directs down at the kittens at his feet; Alonzo coming up along with a few others as well as the Misto-Tugger lump. “Tug-inator, what’s the likelihood that you can carry Misto back to the kittens’ den with you?”
“Bad,” Munk can just hear Tugger respond as he trots off, shaking his head in exasperation.
“And don’t use the Growltiger voice!” Munk calls over his shoulder as he goes.
~
He and Deuteronomy spend the rest of the night dealing with the colony cats.
Augustus helps for a time, and Gus comes down once or twice, but it’s mostly just Munk and his father. The adrenaline fades quickly in the aftermath of the incident and the passage of any potential danger, leaving Munk uncertain of himself as he withstands lectures and hands out unenthusiastic apologies to incensed colony leaders. Questions about Misto’s name and identity are raised, and are promptly waved off. Last thing they need is the visiting kittens rejecting Misto due to the annoyance of their guardians. But as the moon climbs through the sky and as Munk’s composure and authority are questioned over and over again, his iron-clad certainty in how he’d handled the incident begins to wane.
It’s only around moonhigh that he gets his first break. The seemingly never-ending stream of irate and flustered cats slows for a long while and then stops altogether just before the moon hits its peak; the colony cats are likely busy with meals and mid-night naps for the time.
He almost doesn’t believe it when one particularly chatty colony leader heads off and he and Deuteronomy are left standing there alone, nothing but the piles surrounding them and the whistling breeze dancing past Munk’s cheek to fill the space.
With a bone-weary sigh, Munk decides to take whatever blessings he’s been given and plops down to sit on the concrete, elbows propped up on his knees.
Deuteronomy makes a low chuckle in his throat at the sight Munk likely makes, small and childish. “Rowell has always been a cat with a lot to say,” he offers to Munk with amusement.
“He was hardly a problem,” Munk grumbles. The old tom and Deuteronomy had spent the last ten minutes talking about the expected kitten haul this upcoming spring; not the worst conversation Munk has nodded and smiled his way through. After a short silence, he adds, “I’m sorry.”
“You’re sorry?” Deuteronomy echoes.
“I panicked,” Munk says. He hardly thinks Deuteronomy needs it repeated; half of the cats who’d come down here had a lot to say about Munk’s respect and lack of composure. We were all frightened and then this one comes out and starts barking at us, one elder in particular had said.
I’d have thought you would’ve taught him better, they’d added.
“I should’ve stayed calm,” Munk adds. “Had Jenny organize retrieving Misto and then addressed all of the colony cats myself, instead of shoving them onto you like this.”
“You don’t have any idea if Jenny’s efforts would have located Misto,” Deuteronomy reminds him.
“It was Alonzo who found him. And Misto wanted Tugger afterwards, not me. I didn’t contribute anything to that effort besides pacing about and worrying and alienating the cats who’ve placed their trust in us.”
Deuteronomy doesn’t reply to that for a moment. “It’s always easy to say ‘I should have been calmer’ after a crisis is over, Munkustrap. You’ve gained some experience, and no one was harmed badly. And besides,” he adds with an amused huff, “I think some of the cats that you apparently yelled so fiercely at could use the humbling.”
Munk twists his head to fix his father with a frown, and he laughs a bit.
“It’ll be fine, Munkustrap. Really,” Deuteronomy says with a smile. “I know this all seems bad, but the colony cats just had a scare, is all. A couple months down the line and their prides will stop them from bringing it up again.”
“And Misto?”
“It doesn’t sound like most of them even got a glimpse of him.”
“I didn’t mean his reputation,” Munk says to the junk pile opposite him.
“We’ll see how he does,” Deuteronomy figures. “It sounds like he was very upset, but any kitten would be after being ganged up on by so many grown cats. Not to mention how he may have frightened himself with the lightning, if it’s true that this is the first time he’s done it. But he may bounce back quicker than you think.”
Munk sighs, doubtful.
“Really, Munkustrap,” Deuteronomy says again. “It’ll be fine.”
It’ll be fine, echoes through his head for the rest of the night. The barrage of annoyed cats picks up again within only a few minutes, but as the moon travels through the sky and as the flow of cats slows once again to a trickle, he finds himself thinking that just may be true.
Jenny comes by at dinnertime with a can of tuna for him and Deuteronomy to split, and Munk happily takes his second opportunity of the night to sit and bask in the silence.
But, “Jenny,” Deuteronomy says as she passes the can over, “This is by far too much for just Munkustrap and I; shall we pass it along?”
“It’s for you two and Misto and Tugger,” Jenny informs them with her hands on her hips. “Munk has to go take a break and check on them after you’re finished eating.”
“Jenny, I don’t want to leave–” Munk starts.
“Or else the poor dears will starve,” she adds pointedly as she turns to go, and Munk sighs.
He lifts his chin to silently bid his father for help, but the expression Deuteronomy sends him in return is both unsympathetic and a little amused. “Munkustrap,” he says after a moment, “Would you like for me to bestow you with some wisdom?”
“Yes,” Munk says immediately.
“Heat season is the last time of the year I would risk angering a strong-willed queen like Jennyanydots.”
Munk can only sigh again.
He and Deuteronomy each take their share of the tuna, and after making sure that his father is willing and able to clear the last of the stragglers who’d like to hear the rundown, Munk makes off with the can in his arms.
He’ll have to ask Jelly how Misto is, he figures. He can’t imagine the little guy didn’t have an episode while he was holed up like that. Irritation burns in his stomach while he considers it. He and Deuteronomy had spoken about Misto just the other night; his father told Munk about a cat he’d known generations ago who’d been taken by episodes of self-directed violence. All we could do was restrain him, he’d said. As little as possible, as gently as possible, just enough to ensure he didn’t do any harm.
And of course as soon as Munk knows what he should do, Misto has an episode while he’s not around. The cat his father had known never grew out of the episodes; Munk’s not sure if he likes the logistics of restraining a grown cat in such a manner, but Dewey has said that Misto’s likely to grow up small. He’s the opposite of Tugger in that way; small paws in proportion to his body.
Jenny had told him the duo were at Jelly’s den, so Munk heads that way on admittedly hopeful paws; maybe Deuteronomy was right about Misto bouncing back. He’s at least pleased to find the three of them gathered outside in the moonlight rather than holed up in a corner within the den, but Misto is sitting quietly next to the entrance with a ball of yarn in his lap, chin pressed to the soft surface. Tugger is nearby, prancing around with his gaze close to the ground; probably chasing a bug. Jelly sits beside Misto, mending what looks like someone’s hat.
No one’s in tears at least, but maybe that bit about Misto bouncing back was a bit much to hope for.
“Finally!” Tugger says when he spots Munk coming, pausing in his game. Jelly and Misto both look up in sync at his bark, and he smiles at the three of them as he trots over.
“Tuna for the boys too?” Jelly says.
“Too?” Munk echoes, frowning down at Tugger when he scampers right up to his leg.
“I’m hungry,” he demands, grabbing Munk around the knee and shaking him a bit.
“Jenny stopped by earlier and gave me some of that exact can,” Jelly explains. “Said that you would be by to feed the boys later and it wasn't for them.”
Munk sighs. “I don’t know why she bothers with the crafty stuff when she can just boss me around and she knows it.”
“Well she can’t outright boss you around anymore, Munkustrap; you’re our leader now,” Jelly reminds him. “That’s where the subterfuge comes in.”
“Muuunk,” Tugger prompts from below.
“Fine, here.” Munk crouches to set the can down beside Tugger. “Don’t cut yourself. Misto, come eat, alright?” When Misto doesn’t move from his spot, he prompts, crouched there, “Are you hungry?”
Misto nods only after a long moment, expression rather blank. He doesn’t look as if he’s been crying, at least. Though it’s been hours.
“Then come eat,” Munk tells him.
Misto gets up after that, though he doesn’t have much enthusiasm when he crosses over. Munk sidesteps out of the way and backs up to settle at Jelly’s side, sprawling his legs before him.
“How has he been?” he asks her softly.
“Quiet,” Jelly supplies, picking up her sewing again. “He didn’t want much to play. I tried to talk to him a bit, but I don’t think he took to anything I said.”
“And otherwise?”
“I couldn’t get a good look at him; he didn’t really want to be touched. But his forehead was hot.” She lifts a hand to touch her own forehead, meeting his gaze. “Bruised.”
Munk nods, mouth set. “Had a feeling.”
“They both slept a bit, but they’re probably tired. I could bring them to the kittens’ den while you head to sleep.”
“No thank you,” Munk insists. “I don’t want him there today.” Lifting his voice to address the kittens, he adds, “Do you two want to come sleep at my den today?”
When Tugger lifts his head he has a mouthful of fish. Misto on the other hand only holds a small glob between his paws, but he doesn’t say anything until Tugger swallows. “Yes!” his brother chirps, turning to Misto. “That’s where my toys are. I can show you them.”
“Misto?” Munk prompts when the little guy doesn’t say anything.
“Okay,” Misto agrees quietly.
~
Tugger goes barreling into the den first in line, scampering on all four paws across the balcony and through the entrance. “Look,” he tells Misto following quietly behind. “Here’s my toys. See? I don’t have to share these with anybody.” He all but dives into the veritable mountain of junk that’s been piling up against the far wall of the den.
Plenty of cats will give Tugger toys when they visit the Yard– either because they remember his fiery little personality, as an indirect way to honor Deuteronomy, or perhaps in an attempt to get on the good side of the bloodline. And admittedly Munk’s sourced a couple of them himself. But he has a ton, so there’s pretty much enough for Tugger to dive into the pile and disappear within. Toys scatter across the scrap metal floor in his wake, and Munk kicks a couple errant jingle bells away from the entrance as he ducks inside last.
“See?” Tugger says, emerging from the pile with a glittery thing on a stick. “This is my pounce-toy.” He shoves the toy at Misto and then returns to his scattered pile; Munk settles against the wall while he scoops up a pair of metal balls. “And these are my stick-sticks, see?” He brings the two balls together and demonstrates how they snap towards each other, then pulls them apart with effort and shoves them upon Misto as well.
“This is my scratchy,” he continues with a long tube of thick cardboard, which Misto has to sit down upon the floor to accept without dropping anything. “And this is my zig-zag! And this is my squeaky ball! And this is my sock-thing!”
Munk smiles while Misto is slowly buried within the pile of toys, eyes big and pupils wide as he splays his paws to accept the next offering.
“And this is my fishy!” Tugger continues after transferring pretty much the entirety of the pile over to Misto’s spot, heaving up the large stuffed fish a colony leader from near the river had gotten him last year. It’s basically the same size as him, and he stumbles a bit as he heaves it over to Misto and plops it down before his splayed legs with a raised cloud of dust and a boof.
“Woah,” Misto says in the gigantic toy’s wake.
“Yeah, woah,” Tugger agrees, then climbs atop and over the fish to squirm up close. “Got plenty of toys here,” he explains, settling down before Misto with his legs sprawled on either side of the smaller kitten. “We don’t even need to go to the kittens’ den or the clearing to have fun.” Casting his gaze off to the side, he picks up a jingle bell and holds it between his hands, not lifting his eyes before cheerily adding, “It can just be you and me, for forever.”
When Tugger lifts his gaze he’s met with a smile growing slowly over Misto’s little face, the first of the night, and grins himself to match it.
And, huh, Munk thinks, arms crossed over his chest. That’s kind of an odd thing to say to a friend.
He frowns while the kittens turn their attention onto the legion of toys. Kind of an unusual thing to say to a friend, but does that mean–?
Does Tugger…?
Nah. Munk settles back against the wall. He’s just reading too much into it.
Chapter Text
Some things seem like too much to even hope for, but Misto is beginning to think he got away with the lightning thing.
It’s been two nights and three days since what happened in the clearing– two nights of walking around on tiptoe and three days spent lying awake frozen in fear of whatever punishment was coming his way. But he has yet to receive even a scolding for it. Ever since Old Gus took Tugger, Misto, and Alonzo from the clearing no one has even brought it up. Jelly had only asked him questions about how he was feeling, and Munk hadn’t said a word about it when he came to bring Misto and Tugger to his den.
He'd say it was like everyone forgot about it as soon as it happened, but he’s heard the other kittens whispering to each other. That’s another strange part; so many of them seem to have heard there was lightning in the clearing and a magical cat did it, but none of them seem to have been told by their gossiping guardians who was responsible.
And Misto can’t explain it. Any of it.
Mother told him to be good back when they first came here, so he’s been trying very hard not to get in trouble. Which isn’t easy, because no one ever told him the rules. Back when he misbehaved with Mother, she would tell him he did a bad thing right away. Munkustrap had done the same when Misto disappeared on their walk the other night, but just because he explained it once doesn’t mean it’ll get explained every time.
‘If you’re ever in trouble, Misto, you’ll know’, Munk had told him once, and that had been the opposite of helpful. He’s been terrified for weeks now that he’ll break some rule that he should have known existed and then who knows what will happen. No one told him the punishments for breaking the rules either.
And Munk had told him he wasn’t in trouble after the lightning thing, when he spoke to Misto through the crates. But he also had said ‘There’s nothing wrong with you’, and he’d only been able to spit that out through the lie twisted up in his throat.
Munk knew. Munk knows. Misto has been trying not to be bad or wrong, but clearly he hadn’t tried hard enough. The secret is out.
Misto had worried… that the junkyard cats might get rid of him once they knew. His mother never minded that he’s wrong, but his mother is his mother.
‘I know I’m not your mother’, Munk’s voice echoes in Misto’s head. ‘But I do love you. You’re part of the tribe now, you’re one of us.’
It would be nice if that were it. But he keeps remembering the faces of all of those colony cats. Teeth bared and ears flat. Terrified of him.
“Misto!” comes Tugger’s voice, and Misto startles just in time to startle a second time when a jingle bell tinks against his forehead. He frowns over at Tugger a few pawsteps away from him, both pressed up against the far junk pile wall of the kittens’ den. Tugger spreads his palms towards the moon in response, and Misto flinches again when a group of tom-kittens go running past their sort-of quiet spot. He’s still not used to how loud it is in here.
Misto bends down to pick up the jingle bell and tosses it back Tugger’s way, frowning off to the side while Tugger dives to catch it. He doesn’t know what else to do besides just keep on being as well-behaved and not-wrong as possible in the hopes that he can make up for the occasional spot of wrongness, but for all he knows there is some punishment for the lightning thing that’s coming his way, and the adults haven’t told him yet because–
“MISTO!” Tugger barks again, and Misto scrunches his face up just before the jingle bell smacks his nose.
“Why can’t you call before you throw it?” Misto exclaims at his friend, and bends over to pick up the ball.
“Stop looking at the ground and then I don’t hafta yell at all!”
Misto rolls his eyes as he straightens, though he stills with the bell clutched in both paws when he catches movement from the corner of his eye and finds that someone is standing in the still-open entrance to the kittens’ den.
It’s Munk. Misto glances up at the moon with nerves; breakfast was hours ago, and dinner will be much later in the night, so Munk doesn’t have much reason to be here unless something is going on.
“Misto, throooow it!” Tugger yells, but Misto ignores him. Munk’s just standing there in the entranceway, arms crossed over his chest and eyeing everyone, sort of in a way like he’s looking for something.
Or someone. He’s probably here for some other kitten, Misto figures. There are dozens here that he may need to talk to… or punish… or banish from the junkyard for a million years…
But Munk only scans the masses for a couple seconds before making eye contact with Misto standing there. And of course he then starts right over.
Misto’s shoulders draw up, and he drags his tail around his thighs to clutch between his palms along with the jingle bell. Maybe he was getting too hopeful about not getting in trouble after all.
But Munk walks right past Misto.
“Tugger,” Munk says, in the kind of voice you use to lure a mouse from a hole. “Your mother’s here to see you.”
Misto drops the bell. Frowning, he turns to look over at Tugger, standing alone by the junk pile wall. He doesn't say anything to Munk, just frowns up at him as his brother closes the last couple steps between them.
Munk holds out his hand to Tugger. “Come on, she’s waiting.”
It’s only about here that Misto actually processes that he’s not in trouble, and he crosses over to Munk and his friend, tail still between his paws. “Tugger’s mother is here?” he asks Munk, head tilted back to look at him.
Munk smiles at Misto. “She visits every year for heat season.”
Misto twists to look over at Tugger again, this time in assessment. He didn’t know Tugger had a mother, and he’s just as surprised to hear it as he’d been to meet Deuteronomy a few nights ago.
“Tugger and I are going to say hello,” Munk continues.
Misto looks at him again. “Is she your mother too?”
“No, just Tugger’s.”
Misto twists again to look at Tugger, and finds his friend hasn’t moved a muscle, not even the frowning ones in his brow.
“Come on, Tugger,” Munk insists, waggling his hand in prompt. “She asked to see you.”
Tugger finally moves at that, though slowly, and he only takes a couple steps forward. He starts to reach for Munk’s hand, then retracts his own. “Can I bring Misto with me?”
Misto blinks, but Munk barely pauses. “If he’d like to come. We’re going to the clearing, Misto, but we’ll only be a minute.”
It’s loud in the clearing, Misto knows perfectly well. Louder than it is here. But Tugger turns to Misto with a weird kind of look on his face, and Misto decides to be a little brave. “Okay.”
~
Misto has to resist the urge to cover his ears when Tugger drags him into the clearing a couple minutes later.
He flattens them against his head, but that does little to filter out the dull thunder of so many voices– and so many cats to match them! He’d noticed the crowds when he was last here, but he marvels at all of the cats scattered over the grating and tire and crates with a new nervous appreciation. He’s a little worried someone may recognize him from the other night. But he knows he’s not the only tuxedo kitten here for heat season, so even the cats who saw him up close then might not recognize him now. And Munk said they’d only be here for a minute.
But more importantly than any of that: there’s dancing! A group of queens are doing a routine in the center of the dance floor; it’s not ballet, but he supposes it’s an alright dance, following Tugger as they circle the space the queens are using to twirl.
The queen closest to them in the formation has a really bad pirouette though. She could use some help with that; next time she spins she may fall.
Misto only catches “And here’s Tugger!” from the direction Tugger’s headed because Jenny’s voice is so shrill. He tears his gaze away from the dancing to squint at Jenny standing only a few paces before them, amongst a group of cats lounging at the base of the crates. Alonzo naps there sometimes, but tonight a group of queens are using the spot to chat amongst themselves. A brown tabby, and a gray cat, and a flame-point short one, and then the tallest of the group who has her back to them, but she’s mostly black–
Munk comes right up behind them while Misto is eyeing the group, and scoops Tugger up from beneath his arms, taking him away from Misto. Tugger kicks his legs and releases Misto’s wrist, but doesn’t voice a complaint when Munk settles him down on a crate right at the shoulder of the nearly-black queen. Misto kicks his own legs a little when Munk does the same for him in the sparse second it takes the lady to turn around.
And–
“Hi, Pumpkin.”
Well, she looks very much like Tugger. Misto’s not sure why that’s surprising; Vicky looks a lot like their mother. But she’s black from her toes up to her shoulders, where the darkness of her belly cedes to the golden spots on her chest. She’s short-furred all over though, and her angled features curl into a smile as she looks Tugger over with slitted pupils. Given those last bits she shouldn’t look anything like Misto’s fluffy big-eyed friend, but Misto sees Tugger in the stripes on her face and the short curls that frame her head. She kind of looks like someone took Tugger, shaved him, and then stretched him like one of those things humans wrap around newspapers.
“You’ve gotten taller,” she continues in a voice much deeper than Jenny’s. Like a purr. All rumbly.
“I always get taller,” Tugger says to her, frowning.
She smiles. “Of course you do, Pumpkin.”
Tugger then reaches behind him and grabs Misto’s wrist, drawing him closer; Misto stumbles to follow his grip and bonks into Tugger’s shoulder. “This is my friend Misto.”
A couple of the ladies opposite Tugger’s mother chuckle and coo at that, but she just smiles.
“Misto’s new to the junkyard,” Munk says from behind them. “He and Tugger get along like a house on fire.”
“That’s good.” She reaches out and nudges Tugger’s cheek with her knuckle. “I never made friends at that age.”
“Such a cutie, Jezorah,” one of the ladies says.
“Is this the one that’s Deuteronomy’s son?”
Jezorah makes a face and turns to her friend. “A bit of a misguided pairing on my end, but yes,” she tells the spotted queen. “Though I’ve had many of those, and Deuteronomy was hardly the worst.”
“That tom that lived under the corner store was the worst,” one of her friends supplies with dry humor. Misto glances sideways at Tugger and then over at Jenny on the opposite side of the huddle, smiling too-widely.
“At least that didn’t last long,” Jezorah says to her friend instead of turning back around to face them. “You were entangled with that younger girl from the colony just past the bakery for more than a year, weren’t you? The one who’d scarcely ever taken a step past her humans’ garden.”
“She was a sweet thing, I don’t know if…”
Misto stops paying attention to… wherever that conversation had been headed when Tugger turns to step up to the edge of their crate, and then hops down without a word. Startled, Misto watches him go and then twists to look at his mother, who still seems engrossed in her conversation. It doesn’t even seem like she noticed he left. When Misto turns back around Tugger has already marched past Munk standing beside the crate; it looks like he’s heading the way they came.
Well, Misto’s not going to stand here alone. He hops down at the same time he hears Jenny say, “Munk!” and scurries after Tugger on the concrete. Munk comes up behind Misto a moment later, and then Jenny catches up to them at a trot right after.
“At least have him say goodbye,” Jenny says when she comes up alongside Munk; Misto twists to eye them in the corner of his vision as he continues following Tugger.
Munk sighs, then seems to spend a moment thinking before he calls, “Tugger!”
Tugger doesn’t respond, but admittedly Misto doesn’t know if he heard, so he slows to watch Munk sigh again and pick up the pace to both pass Misto and then cut in front of Tugger; he bends down to place a hand on his brother’s shoulder, stopping him in his tracks.
“Tugger–” Munk starts as Misto slows before them.
“I don’t like her,” Tugger heatedly tells Munk; for a moment Misto thinks he’s misunderstood, and glances at Jenny stopping beside him. “And she doesn’t like me.”
With that, Tugger shrugs out of Munk’s grip and dodges around him to continue on his way.
Munk looks up at Jenny, paws twisted towards the moon. “Want me to drag him back so he can repeat that to her face?” he demands, then turns to follow his brother without waiting for an answer.
Once again, Misto is not going to be left here, so he scurries after them, leaving Jenny standing there by herself.
~
Munk only walks Misto and Tugger up to the entrance of the kittens’ den before he tells them he has to talk to Jenny and returns the way they came.
Misto looks to Tugger in Munk’s wake, but his friend doesn’t say anything, just sets out towards the quieter side of the kittens’ den clearing where they’d been playing earlier. Misto glances in the direction Munk had quickly disappeared, then follows at a slower pace.
Tugger is sitting by the wall when Misto slows before him, wrapped around an errant ball of yarn settled between his knees. Misto stands at his shoulder for a silent moment or two, thrown by what he witnessed and not sure how he’s supposed to process it. He scratches behind his ear as the silence stretches, and winces a bit at how sensitive the skin there has gotten.
He had thought– well, he certainly thought they would actually talk to Tugger’s mother. He’d even been preparing what he was going to say as they’d walked down, but she’d only said like two things to them before Tugger left. Maybe she did have more to say, but she hadn’t exactly tried to stop them before they went either.
Did she really want them to come out there just so she could look at Tugger for a few seconds?
Munk said she visits once a year for heat season. Misto hasn’t seen his mother for a few weeks, and he thinks if he got to visit her he’d talk for so long his voice would fall out of his throat.
“She doesn’t like me,” Tugger says to the nearby pile while Misto is pondering it all, his chin propped up on the yarn. “She’s never liked me.”
Misto doubts that at first; he doesn’t think mothers can not like their kittens.
…Though Munk hadn’t corrected Tugger when he’d said the same thing back at the clearing. And she’d hardly blinked when they left. But if she didn’t like Tugger then why ask to see him at all?
Misto doesn’t understand, but the last thing he wants to do is ask. He watches as Tugger twists his head to rest his cheek on the soft yarn, facing away from Misto. He doesn’t say anything, but even over the nearby yelling of kittens Misto can still hear his wet sniff, and see the paw he lifts to swipe at his eye.
Misto’s never seen Tugger cry before.
Well, he has. Tugger throws tantrums all the time. But he’s never seen Tugger cry when no adults are around to give him something for it. He’s never seen Tugger cry quietly. Facing the wall. Like he doesn’t want anyone to see.
So Misto voices the only thing he can think to voice: “I like you.”
Tugger sniffs again, but when he twists to rest his opposite cheek on the yarn, he has a bit of a wobbly smile on his face. “But I’m annoying,” he points out with a mild joy that puts a smile on Misto’s own face.
“Well, yes,” Misto admits. “But I still like you.” When Tugger just smiles at him, Misto bends down to pick up one of the smaller balls of yarn by his feet. “Come on,” he says, and sets his ball atop Tugger’s when his friend lifts his chin off of it. “Let’s play a game.”
“Like what?” Tugger prompts; when he stands he knocks the second ball of yarn off of the big one, and he stoops down to pick it up.
“I don't know.” Misto twists to eye the toys scattered over the clearing. Just from the corner of his eye he can see Tugger set the yarn ball back atop the first, and then frown when it immediately rolls off. “Oh. We can play catch,” Misto figures when he spots a jingle bell nearby. “Like before Munk interrupted us.”
“How did you do this?” Tugger asks in the middle of a second attempt to stack the yarn. Misto scampers off to grab the jingle ball, ignoring Tugger’s, “Waaaaait, Misto, how did you do this?” following him.
~
Misto likes blocks very much.
The junkyard has lots of toys. Jingly things and glittery things and soft things and bouncy things, but he likes the blocks when he’s playing by himself. He has a new trick, and he wants to show Deuteronomy before he goes home for heat season like Munk said he will within a few nights, but Misto hasn’t exactly mastered it yet.
He sighs when the block resting atop his finger falls to the concrete with a clonk.
He’s far from mastered it.
He probably would’ve made more progress by now, but Tugger always wants to play something or other together. Luckily right now he’s playing ball with some of the older kittens, while everyone is slowing down as the sun begins to rise. And Vicky’s already asleep for the day, so Misto has no distractions for the time being, and he’s determined to work out the kinks.
It’s just hard to balance these things. He picks up the block again and tosses it in the air, leaning forward to catch it atop his pointer finger. He smiles a bit when it lands right, wobbling his hand to keep the balance with the utmost concentration. Blindly, he reaches past his flicking tail for another block–
“Whatcha doing?”
–And the block falls to the ground again. Misto looks up at the she-kitten who interrupted him: she’s black and white and bigger than him, and for a moment he eyes her with suspicion. Other kittens almost never talk to him unless they want to take something from him.
“Playing,” Misto tells her.
“What game is that?” she asks as she circles Misto on four paws. He twists to keep her in his line of sight, but all she does is plop down at his side.
“It’s not a game,” Misto explains with hesitance. “It’s a trick.”
“How do you do it?”
He frowns at her for another moment, then leans forward to pick up a block. Once again, he tosses it in the air and catches it on his finger. “You stack the blocks on top of each other,” he explains while balancing the block. “But I can only do two at a time.”
She watches him scoop up another block and toss it in the air, catching it atop the first block so they’re both stacked on his fingertip.
“Cool,” she says in a manner that reminds Misto of Tugger. He smiles a bit, and lets the blocks fall while she plucks one up herself. She tosses it in the air, but it falls far to the left of her upright finger, and clonks against the ground.
“You have to practice,” Misto tells her. She tries again, this time with a frown, and fails in the same way.
“I don’t get it,” she says, then looks to Misto. “You do it again.”
Tail thwapping against the ground a bit, Misto reaches over and grabs one of the blocks with a smile. “You have to look really close,” he explains, looking over at her when she leans in close, her temple bonking against his cheek. Though before he can continue she recoils, face scrunching up.
“You smell weird,” she says.
Misto frowns, then looks down at himself. “I… do?”
She leans in close and sniffs at his face before wrinkling her nose. “Yeah. Did you roll in something?”
Misto's shoulders draw up. “No…”
She sniffs again, sitting back. “Maybe you're sick. One of the elders in my colony smelled really bad when he got sick last winter. Though he died afterwards.”
That’s what happened to Misto’s mother. Everyone said she went away forever to some other place he couldn’t visit, which means dying. Misto sets his block down to scratch behind his ear. “I smell like I’m going to die?”
“No, just weird,” she tells him. Then very seriously, “But I don’t want to play with you in case you’re sick. Bye.”
Misto watches her scamper off, paws clutched to his chest. The group of kittens playing ball are still jumping around on the far side of the clearing, but otherwise it’s fairly quiet; many kittens are already asleep. He’s left alone with the nervous thoughts circling his head. He doesn’t smell anything when he sniffs his arm, and he knows he hasn’t rolled in anything smelly. Maybe that kitten just has a weird nose, he tells himself as he scratches behind his ear, which stings a little.
He decides to investigate. Maybe he’s getting sick. Or something.
The kittens’ den itself is quiet on the inside, and Misto sneaks under the tarp structure built off the usual desk-den with light paws. Vicky is right near the entrance, bundled up with a bunch of other little kittens her age. She looks pretty firmly asleep, though she stirs when he nudges her shoulder a couple times, leaning over a tomkitten with stripes.
“Vicky,” he whispers, and she squints open one eye.
“…Toffees?”
“Do I smell bad?” he asks her, leaning forward carefully so she can lift her small head and sniff at his face.
“Nuh,” is all she says before yawning. “Just smell like you…”
Misto frowns, but he leans back so she can put her head down and return to her sleep. Maybe that she-kitten really did have a weird nose, he figures to himself.
He turns to watch a group of older kittens come crawling into the den while he’s contemplating the matter, yawning and squinty-eyed. Tugger is among them, so he turns and heads towards his friend while the others disperse and snuggle down to head to sleep.
“Tugger,” Misto greets his friend as he trots over to the spot Tugger has chosen to stretch out. “Do I smell bad?”
Tugger looks up at Misto from his back, arms over his head and toes pointed as another kitten settles down next to him. “Yeah.”
Misto is at first surprised by such a speedy answer, then annoyed. “You didn’t even smell me!” he points out in anger.
“You always smell kinda bad,” Tugger informs him as he settles, eyes half-lidded.
“…What?”
“Like… those shiny puddles you’re not supposed to splash in,” Tugger says, then yawns. “Or human cars.”
“What?” is all Misto can possibly say to that.
“Don’t worry, I still…” He yawns again, face scrunching up. “…Like you.”
Misto stands there while Tugger quickly falls asleep and the other kittens settle down around him, brows pinched together. Misto didn’t know he smells bad. He wonders if Tugger was lying to him for some reason; Vicky said he smells normal, and he knows Vicky wouldn’t tell a lie. But why would Tugger and that she-kitten both lie to him? He sniffs his arm again, but it still doesn’t smell like anything.
He doesn’t know. It doesn’t make sense either way!
“You’re in the way,” an older kitten tells him as he skips past, and Misto quickly steps to the side, wrapping his arms around himself. It seems like just about everyone is finally settling down to sleep, but twisting around reveals that there isn’t a single spot to lie down that he won’t be at least close to another group of kittens. Even Tugger has a couple more lying down near his side right now.
Misto sniffs at his arm once again, but he doesn’t smell a thing, even when he presses it up against his nose. He scratches behind his smarting ear again and wraps his arms around himself with a sniff.
Until he knows for sure if he smells… he can’t sleep here.
~
By the time Jenny comes down from the junk pile wall Misto’s been crying for so long that his eyes hurt.
“Misto?” she greets him at a shrill whisper when she spots him sitting by the entrance to the kittens den, sitting curled up in a ball. “Why are you out here? What happened?”
Misto peers up at her blearily, arms tucked around his middle. “The other kittens s-said I smell bad.”
Jenny sighs instead of immediately assuring him that he’s wrong, and Misto makes a little coughing noise of misery, reaching up to swipe at an eye. She crouches down before him, balancing on the balls of her feet. “Misto,” she says softly, “You’re magical, that’s all. Every magical cat smells… unique. Macavity did as well. It’s nothing to be ashamed of; go to sleep.”
“No!” Misto insists tearily. He supposes it’s nice to hear that he’s not dying, but it does him basically the opposite of good to hear that he’s been smelling bad his whole life and nobody ever told him, not even Tugger. It reminds him of what Munk said, about not telling ugly cats that they’re ugly. What else is obviously wrong with him that no one will bother to mention to him?
He wonders if that’s why no one has brought up the lightning thing since it happened.
He sniffs again and rubs at his shoulder, brows pinched. “They’ll smell me,” he tells Jenny. “I don’t want to sleep there.”
“Fine,” Jenny gives in immediately, which Misto hadn’t expected. “Why don’t you come sleep in my den today, Misto?”
He lifts a paw to swipe at the tear tracks on his cheek. “You don’t mind that I smell?”
“No, Misto, of course not.” With a click of her tongue, she shifts forward onto her knees and takes his chin in her one hand to steady his head, before swiping away his tears in such a businesslike manner that Misto’s nose scrunches up. “Come now,” she adds as she finishes her work. “Let’s go to sleep, alright?”
Chapter Text
The next moonrise Jenny walks Misto back to the kittens’ den– Misto’s not thrilled to go back, but he knows that Jenny has her own commitments during heat season, as Munk has mentioned to him, so he doesn’t want to be a bother and waste any more of her time than necessary. He’s been trying to be good, after all.
They happen upon Munk right outside the kittens’ den, and as a matter of fact nearly run him over at the corner leading up to the entrance.
Or more accurately, he nearly runs them over.
“Jenny!” Munk says right after he barely manages to flail to a stop before knocking into her. “Gus and I were just feeding the kittens, and Misto–”
Just as he says Misto’s name, his gaze falls down to Misto standing beside Jenny, and he tries to smile up at Munk when their eyes meet.
“Misto!” Munk says again, cutting himself off. “Where were you?”
“I went to check on the kittens before I went to sleep at sunrise,” Jenny explains before Misto can attempt to. “Misto was the only one awake, sitting outside the den in the cold. He said some of the others told him he smells bad. He wouldn’t go inside, so I brought him back to mine.”
“I… see. Sorry, Jenny,” Munk says. “You’re probably busy; I can take him.”
“I’m not busy in the middle of the day, dear,” Jenny informs him with a smile. “Not yet, at least.”
Misto watches as Munk and Jenny talk for a minute or two more, then Jenny turns to go, bidding Misto goodbye after Munk.
“How about we go talk to Deuteronomy?” Munk suggests when she’s gone. Misto can only nod.
~
“Munk,” Misto says while he and Munk are on the way to Deuteronomy’s old person den, his cheek pressed against Munk’s fluffy shoulder. “Why didn’t anyone tell me I smell bad?”
“You don’t–” Munk starts, then falls silent. “Well,” he eventually says. “It’s rude.”
“Like telling ugly cats that they’re ugly?”
“Yes, Misto, just like that.”
Misto frowns while considering that, lips pressed together. He’d personally prefer to know if he were ugly or smelly; it feels meaner to allow someone to go through their night-to-night unaware of how weird or wrong they are. So many of these rules just don’t make any logical sense to him; he doesn’t know how he’s supposed to be able to pick up on these kinds of things on his own. How is anyone to learn about things that are forbidden from being talked about?
That reminds him of something.
Misto rubs his cheek against Munk’s shoulder briefly, then lifts his head. “Munk,” he says again. “Who’s Macavity?”
Munk stops dead in his tracks, and stares at Misto with raised brows. Misto withers a little at the sudden attention, gaze flickering off to the side as he lifts a paw to scratch behind his smarting ear.
“Did I do s-something wrong?” Misto asks when the silence stretches.
Munk shakes his head, like he’s trying to get water out of his ears. “I’m sorry, Misto,” he says, then starts walking again. “You just surprised me. Who told you about Macavity?”
“No one,” Misto says truthfully. Then less truthfully, he adds, “Jenny mentioned him to me at sunrise. She said he smelled bad too.”
That is technically true, but Jenny isn’t the only place he’s heard that name. He still remembers how it had sounded at a shriek in the clearing, following that deathly silence that his lightning trick had engendered. It had been called out like… a warning.
“Oh,” Munk says. “Well, he was my big brother.”
Misto hadn’t been expecting that response, and he stares at Munk himself for a moment there, head tilted. There’s a lot in such a simple short sentence that intrigues him, but the ‘was’ in particular gets him. He didn’t know someone could just stop being related to another cat.
This Macavity is clearly not at the junkyard anymore, so Misto is also left wondering where he is now, if not with his family. He has one guess in particular: “Did he go away forever like my mother?”
“No,” Munk says quickly. “He’s just far away from here.” Munk hefts Misto in his arms, then fixes his gaze upon the path before them as he explains, “He was magical, and he used his magic to hurt other cats. So we sent him away.”
And that makes everything make sense, very suddenly and vividly. That’s why Misto’s not in trouble for the lightning thing: because he didn’t hurt anyone. Those colony cats were all angry at him because they thought he hurt someone, but he didn’t. And that’s why he wasn’t punished.
It also makes another thing very clear for him: hurting people with magic will get Misto sent away.
That’s… Misto doesn’t like hurting things. Not even the cockroaches that scutter about. So it shouldn’t be an issue, but he hadn’t intended to make lightning-that-doesn’t-hurt-people that night. He hadn’t intended to make any lightning at all, and he knows lightning usually fries things. Why his didn’t… he’s not sure.
But it’s good to know where the line lies, and what will happen if he accidentally crosses it. He’s spent a long time now being worried about unknowingly doing something wrong, and the reality (not a scary imagining he came up with, but an actual possibility) that he could get sent away will help keep him committed to being as good and as not-wrong as possible.
“But we don’t need Macavity,” Munk continues while Misto is thinking. “Tugger and Father and I have each other. And we have the tribe.”
Well, that answers Misto’s follow-up question about whether this Macavity is related to Deuteronomy and Tugger too. Misto rests his cheek on Munk’s shoulder again, idly wondering why Tugger hadn’t mentioned having another brother to Misto. Though he hadn’t mentioned Deuteronomy either until introducing them the other night.
Or his mother.
On that thought, Misto lifts his tail around his side to clasp in his one paw. “…Tugger’s mother doesn’t l-like him,” he tells his tail after a short period of silence.
“Tugger’s mother likes him,” Munk replies, his voice raising in pitch. “She’s just… bad at showing it.”
“She makes Tugger sad.” Misto eyes his tail, then lifts his other paw to wrap around it. “I didn’t know Tugger could be sad.”
Munk doesn’t reply, and the rest of the walk passes in silence.
They turn the corner to Deuteronomy’s old person den, tucked under a big leather couch, and find that he’s not even in it; Misto watches Deuteronomy stretch towards the moon, standing just outside his den, with some awe. He’s never seen such a big cat in his life, he’s sure. Even his uncle isn’t so tall.
“Don’t,” Munk says quietly as they approach, “bring up Macavity to him.”
Misto glances up at Munk, surprised by such a specific request. But he nods in obedience and plunks his head back down onto Munk’s shoulder as they slow in approach.
“Munkustrap,” Deuteronomy greets them after he turns around, brows popping up as his lips curl in a smile. “And little Mistoffelees. What a surprise.”
“Misto had a long night,” Munk tells his father, stopping before him. “Apparently some of the other kittens told him he smells… strange.”
“Oh?” Deuteronomy says, shifting to lean against one of the legs of the nearby couch. “Were they jealous, perhaps?”
“Jealous?” Misto echoes incredulously before he can think to consider otherwise. “No! One kitten refused to play with me because I smelled wrong! And Tugger told me I smell like a shiny puddle!”
Deuteronomy laughs, which Misto doesn't appreciate considering the severity of the situation. “A puddle?”
“I d-don’t want to smell l-like a puddle!” Misto exclaims, a little tearfully this time despite himself, and Deuteronomy smiles again.
“I don’t think you smell like a puddle, Mistoffelees.” Lifting his arms, he says, “Come here, why don’t you,” and Misto squirms a bit in Munk’s arms in an attempt to assist in the passing-over that occurs. Deuteronomy is a million times fluffier than Munk, and he hefts Misto in one arm without any strain on his face. “All magical cats have a unique scent, did you know that?” he asks once Misto is settled.
“Jenny told me,” Misto informs him.
“I’ve met many magical cats in my long life, Mistoffelees. Not a single one smelled like a regular cat. Few, if any, smelled like cats at all.”
Misto’s brows pinch together. “I don’t smell like a cat?” He sniffs, then continues at a higher pitch, “I just smell like a puddle?”
Deuteronomy snorts a bit. “I don’t think you smell like a puddle, Mistoffelees. Tugger is young, and only has so many experiences with which to compare things to.”
Misto swipes at his cheek, considering that. “…Then what do I smell like?”
“I think you smell like the burning heart of a star, Misto. Or the dark clouds that form during a thunderstorm: things most cats could never reach or touch.” Smiling warmly at him, Deuteronomy continues, “You smell like potential, little Mistoffelees, because that’s simply what you are.”
Misto sniffs. “I w-would like to smell normal instead.”
“And what does ‘normal’ smell like?”
“Like a cat,” Misto replies moodily. “Like everyone else.”
“Oh? And what do I smell like, to you?”
Misto admittedly doesn’t recall what Deuteronomy’s scent had been like during their previous meeting, though he hadn’t gotten this close last time. He leans forward to give the old cat a cursory sniff, then frowns. Another sniff reveals nothing but the leather-smell of the couch behind him, so Misto tucks his chin in to sniff again at Deuteronomy’s shoulder right next to his own.
“…My nose is broken,” Misto concludes eventually. “I can’t smell anything.”
Deuteronomy laughs. Misto peers up at him with a frown, not sure why Misto having a wrong nose on top of everything else that’s apparently wrong with him is so funny.
“There’s nothing wrong with your nose, Mistoffelees,” Deuteronomy says. “It’s me that’s the problem; I don’t have a scent.”
Misto only frowns harder. He has to go over those words a second time in his head, because he swears there’s something there he’s missing. But no, he has no idea how else to interpret I don’t have a scent other than exactly how it sounds.
“But how?” Misto prompts. “Everything has a scent. At least a little.” Even the sky has its own smell. Crisp in the winter, smoggy when the humans are up to something, and like pollen and flowers during the summer. Nothing can just not have a scent.
“Not me,” Deuteronomy replies with a smile. “I never have, not even when I was small.”
“…Why don’t you have one?”
“Because I’m magical. Just like you.”
Misto leans back in Deuteronomy’s arms to peer distrustfully at his face. Eventually he says, “…You didn’t do any tricks when I was showing mine.”
This makes him laugh again, and Misto huffs a little. Apparently he’s by far funnier than he thinks. He twists to peer over his shoulder at Munk standing there, and is a touch peeved to find him smiling at whatever Misto said as well.
“I don’t have the kind of magic that allows me to do ‘tricks’, not like you. You are very special in that way, Mistoffelees. Many magical cats have a magic that isn’t visible to the eye.”
Misto wrinkles his nose. “What’s the point of invisible magic?”
“You would be surprised. I do have one trick that you could see, but that trick is for the Jellicle Ball only. And the ball isn’t for kittens, so unfortunately you’ll have to wait until you’re an adult to see that one.”
Misto considers all of that with a frown on his face. Deuteronomy having one fancy trick is all well and good, but he still doesn’t get the point of invisible magic– if it’s invisible then how does anyone even know it’s real?
“So you’re not the only one with your own scent in the tribe, Misto,” Deuteronomy continues before Misto can ponder too hard. “You’ve no reason to feel poorly about it.”
Easy for him to say. Misto would much rather smell like nothing than smell bad. Even if smelling bad means smelling like a star or like potential or whatever.
“Would you like me or Munkustrap to talk to the other kittens for you?” Deuteronomy then asks. “Whatever your scent is, they should know to be polite about it.”
Misto still doesn’t get how keeping him in the dark about his own scent is ‘polite’. But whatever. He doesn’t want Deuteronomy or Munk marching in front of all of the kittens and making a big deal of his smelliness; if any of the kittens haven’t noticed at this point, all of them will know if they do that.
At least Vicky doesn’t think he smells bad, Misto figures glumly. For whatever reason. Maybe her nose hasn’t developed enough yet. And Tugger said he didn’t mind. Even if all of the other kittens in London won’t play with Misto because he smells bad, at least he’ll still have one friend.
Besides, being friends with just Tugger takes up enough of his time already; he doesn’t know how he’d manage having multiple friends.
Misto looks up at Deuteronomy again, nose twitching. “I don’t need anyone to talk to the kittens.”
“Is there something else you’d like to be done, then?” Deuteronomy prompts, and while Misto is idly considering the question, he slowly adds, “Or any… questions you may want answered…?”
The last thing he needs is to look any more wrong and stupid by asking a bad question right now. “I don’t have any questions,” he tells the old cat. With Tugger still on his mind, he adds, “But can I have something done?”
“What would you like done, Mistoffelees?”
“Can you make Tugger’s mother go away forever?” Misto requests. “Like my mother?”
Deuteronomy makes a great whuff of a sound, kind of like a cough, and his brows pop up his forehead. Even Munk makes a noise from behind Misto, almost like a laugh, though he quickly adds, “Misto, that’s not something we ask other cats to do.”
Misto twists to look back at him, then to Deuteronomy, who’s smiling now. He flexes his paw a little, resisting the urge to scratch behind his ear; it’s been hurting quite a bit lately. “Did I say something wrong?” he asks smally.
“I can’t make other cats go away forever, Mistoffelees,” Deuteronomy informs him with warmth. “It’s not our place to decide such things. Your mother was ill, which was out of all of our paws, including hers. If Tugger’s mother wishes to come and visit, then that is something she alone can decide.”
Misto frowns, considering that.
“You wouldn’t be very pleased if one of Victoria’s friends decided that you shouldn’t be allowed to see her ever again, would you?” Deuteronomy prompts.
“Tugger’s mother makes him sad,” Misto tells Deuteronomy. “I don’t make Victoria sad.” He considers another moment, then adds, “If I was making Victoria sad, I would want someone to st-stop me from doing it.”
Deuteronomy smiles at Misto again, this time while tilting his head and scrunching his eyes. “That’s a very grown-up thought, Misto. But it’s good for cats to see where they came from, and I fear Tugger would be much sadder if his mother never came to visit him ever again.”
“But she doesn’t like him,” Misto insists. “I saw, she didn’t even want to talk to him when we went to the clearing last night.”
Deuteronomy says nothing at first, then shifts to look at Munk over Misto’s shoulder.
“It went exactly as it always does,” Munk says fervently as soon as Deuteronomy looks at him. “Jenny wanted me to haul Tugger back when he marched off, but I can’t exactly blame him. What is he supposed to do, sit there and be ignored until she remembers he exists?”
Misto gazes back at Munk with impatience. He’d just told Misto a few moments ago that he was certain Tugger’s mother does like him, but now it seems he’s changed his tune, for some reason.
“Mmh,” Deuteronomy says. “Perhaps I should talk to her again.”
“Talk to her?” Munk echoes incredulously as Deuteronomy pushes off the couch and starts past his son. “You’ve tried that! She never listens, what good is another talking going to do–”
“Misto,” Deuteronomy cuts Munkustrap off, slowing. “Would you like a snack?”
Misto glances over at the very abruptly silent Munk, but he’s not going to lie here. “I haven’t had breakfast yet,” he admits.
“No breakfast?” Deuteronomy echoes. “What a travesty. Here. Go with Munk, and he’ll fetch you something while I go to the clearing and speak to Jezorah.”
Munk sighs, rather heartily, but he doesn’t say anything when Deuteronomy swiftly passes Misto over once again.
Misto clings around Munk’s neck, wondering with some nerves if he had said the wrong thing about breakfast; he doesn’t want to annoy Munk. But Munk doesn’t say anything while Deuteronomy strolls down the path, just stands there in silence holding Misto. And when he does speak, after Deuteronomy has turned and disappeared from sight, all he says is, “Let’s get you some breakfast, alright, Misto?”
~
“Where did you go?” Tugger greets Misto when Munk returns him to the kittens’ den, breakfast eaten and Deuteronomy long gone.
Misto glances over his shoulder at Munk leaving the kittens’ den the way they came, then turns back to his friend. “Why didn’t you tell me I was smelly before I asked last night?”
“I dunno.” Tugger drops the ball of yarn he’d been holding, right before a small group of little she-kittens goes scampering past them. “Thought it wasn’t allowed, I guess.”
Misto wrinkles his nose. “Why?”
“Munk said not to say that you have a stutter ‘cause you already knew,” Tugger informs him. Misto’s ears flatten; apparently all of his hopes about Tugger not noticing his stutter were for nothing as well. Don’t worry, sweetie, it’ll go away when you get bigger, he suddenly remembers his mother saying to him, and he reaches up to scratch behind his ear.
“But I didn’t already know about my scent!” Misto exclaims, one eye scrunched shut and head tilted. He drops his paw to flail it out. “Is there anything else Munk told you not to tell me?”
Tugger glances up towards the moon in thought for a moment. “No.”
Well, that’s something, Misto considers with tense shoulders. He looks down at the paw he’d used to scratch his ear and sighs a bit at the dark clumps wedged under his claws. That’s been happening lately. Though Misto’s distracted from cleaning them when someone comes around his side, and he finds Alonzo crawling around them, ears perked.
“Where’d you go, then?” Tugger asks before eyeing Alonzo himself.
Misto could explain the whole thing, but he’s definitely not going to do it with Alonzo right there. “Got breakfast with Munk.”
“Why?” Alonzo asks as he pops up onto his two feet, which leaves him practically towering over Misto.
“‘Cause Munk likes him more than you,” Tugger informs him briskly. “Don’t you have to go be splotchy somewhere else?”
Alonzo rolls his eyes, but Misto’s own are drawn to Alonzo’s one leg next to his, frowning at the similarity of the black-on-white smudges that trail up both of their knees. He frowns down at himself; if Alonzo is splotchy, does that mean Misto is too?
“Deuteronomy was here earlier,” Alonzo says instead of responding in kind to Tugger, which isn’t usual. “When you were still asleep.”
It’s also not usual for Tugger to prompt, “Why?” instead of continuing to heckle Alonzo as well.
Alonzo shrugs one shoulder. “He and a couple colony queens came, pulled two of the babies out of the desk-den, talked over them for a few minutes, put them back, and then left.” He gestures with one paw towards a group of older she-kittens playing teatime in the corner of the little clearing. “Florianna is from those queens’ colony, and she said she heard from her mother that they were looking to offload some kittens.”
Misto has no idea what that’s supposed to mean, but Tugger immediately exclaims, “More babies! We don’t need any more babies; we already have Victoria!”
Frowning at that last bit, Misto asks, “What’s wrong with Victoria?”
“She’s too small to play,” Tugger reminds him right away. “All she does is sit around and sleep!”
“She’ll be able to play when she’s older.”
“Well that doesn’t help us now, does it?” Tugger turns back to Alonzo. “Did he tell them we have too many babies?”
“Pretty sure we’re going to keep them.”
“Ugh!” Tugger exclaims, throwing his head back.
Misto wrinkles his nose. “…Keep them?”
“They're gonna join the tribe,” Tugger lifts his head to inform Misto. “Like you and your sister did.”
“Oh. Are their mothers going away forever?”
“No, they just don’t want them anymore.”
Misto frowns. “Why not?”
“I dunno,” Tugger says with a flop of his arms.
Misto eyes his friend for a moment; he hadn’t wondered about it earlier, but maybe that’s what Tugger’s mother did to him.
“Doesn’t really matter,” Alonzo says while Misto is considering voicing this thought to Tugger. “We’re probably keeping them either way.”
“UUUuugggGGGHH,” Tugger groans, turning on his heels and marching away from Alonzo. With a bit of a shrug, Misto scratches behind his ear, winces at the following sharp pain, and follows him.
Chapter Text
Munk skitters down the junkyard paths on light paws and with a lighter heart, humming a tune to himself as he pops up a series of cinderblock steps. He might take the corner towards the lower dens a little too fast, but luckily he manages to stop himself just short of running into his father coming the opposite direction.
“Munkustrap!” Deuteronomy greets him with a smile, clasping both of Munk’s arms in his worn hands. “Running late for something?”
“Sorry,” Munk apologizes with his own smile. Forgetting his sheepishness quickly, he adds, “I just spoke with Gus!” as his father’s paws slide back down to rest at his sides. “About the new kittens!”
Deuteronomy’s eyes crinkle as his smile widens. “Yes, I spoke to their mothers earlier in the night. I wouldn’t be surprised if they were brothers.”
Munk had only spoken to Gus briefly, but as he understands it, their newest little tribemates are almost certainly related somehow. Two separate mothers, neither certain who the father is, but similar in color scheme and patterning. Papa might be the same bloke, might be two separate blokes with some shared blood. Wouldn’t be surprised either way, Gus had told him with a shrug.
Munk of course has set eyes on all the kittens here for heat season, but he’s not sure if he remembers two brown-and-white kittens with eyepatches from his sparse visits to the kittens’ den. Admittedly what with Macavity’s absence and everything to do with Misto, Munk hasn’t been paying as much attention to the kittens as he had in years’ past. Unfortunately.
“Have you seen the kittens themselves?”
“Yes, the mothers introduced me.” He makes a whuff of a noise, and adds a little wearily, “They both seemed very excited to have us take the little ones.”
Munk raises his brows once. It’s not his place to assign judgement to the cats who give up their kittens to the Yard. It is his place to care for those kittens, so he should focus on that. “You have me beat,” he admits. “I was just going to stop down and say hello. You’re still heading home tonight?”
Deuteronomy sighs. “I’d extend my stay, but the family will notice my absence by now.”
“Of course, Dad,” Munk is quick to assure him. “Don’t worry about it, I’ve got a handle on things here.”
“I know you do,” Deuteronomy says with a smile, and Munk scrunches up his face with lightness fluttering in his chest when his father reaches up and ruffles the fur atop his head. “I’d like to return for another visit soon; I may be able to manage something before the end of the season. I’d like to check on little Mistoffelees again, see how he’s doing.”
“I wouldn’t complain,” Munk admits with some weariness of his own.
It’s been a few nights since Misto’s incident with the lightning. The little guy clearly hasn’t been quite himself ever since it happened, and of course right when he seemed to be returning to his normal spirits, there was that whole saga about his scent earlier tonight. Munk’d just about had a heart attack when he realized Misto hadn’t been in the kittens’ den during breakfast.
“I…” Munk adds slowly. “Do you think I should talk to him?” Before Deuteronomy can respond, he quickly says, “I definitely didn’t want to do it while he was so upset, but I think he’s starting to do a little better now.”
Deuteronomy ponders this for a moment, then says, “He didn’t bring it up when I asked him if he had any questions earlier. He may not want to speak of it yet, and I’d hate for him to feel forced.”
Munk would say the same thing for just about any other kitten, but he has a feeling Misto won’t bring it up even if he wants to. Though like Deuteronomy said, the last thing Munk wants is to make Misto feel upset or cornered. The little guy’s had a poor enough time the last few nights without Munk making it worse.
Maybe it is a good idea to just wait. Misto did ask Munk about his scent earlier, so maybe Munk’s overanalyzing the little guy and he really just doesn’t want to talk about it yet.
And it would be easier for him. If he just waited for Misto to bring it up.
Shaking his head to ward off his wandering thoughts, Munk continues, “I can walk you home now if you want.”
“No, Munk, go say hello to the kittens. I was just on my way to say goodbye to everyone at the clearing anyways.”
“I’ll meet you there in a quarter hour,” Munk promises, stepping away to let him return to his business.
Deuteronomy waves a paw at him. “Take your time, Munk, we’ll head out whenever we head out.”
“Of course.”
He can say that, but Munk would prefer to get him safe at his humans before sunrise, so they should leave soon. So he continues his journey to the kittens’ den once again with light paws, not only due to his excitement.
The entrance to the kittens’ den is still wide open, and Munk frowns at the entranceway as he ducks through it. Back when Munk was small, the scrap-metal-door stayed up for the entirety of heat season, but back then Deuteronomy and Gus could climb up and over the piles without problems. Now neither of them have the dexterity for it. In previous years if either one of them wanted in, they could just hunt down Macavity and have him single-handedly move the massive door with his magic, but Munk can’t commit such a feat. So they’d left the way open for the last few nights.
He probably should have predicted Tugger would try to escape, as there have been multiple incidents through the years that the little scamp managed to sneak out while Macavity was still in the middle of moving the door. Munk had just figured (naively) that Tugger would behave given the special permission to stay in the kittens’ den throughout the day, and his sense of responsibility over Misto. But of course Tugger doesn’t ever think about consequences, and of course he just brought Misto along with him this time.
It's unfortunate for Gus, but Munk will have to find someone to help shut this place up once he returns from walking Deuteronomy home later. It’s obviously not safe for the kittens to have it stay open, especially since they all probably saw Tugger and Misto just waltz out. The kittens should know better than to run off, of course, but Tugger isn’t the only audacious little scamp contained within this clearing, and the last thing Munk wants is for someone to run off and get themselves hurt.
And while Tugger isn’t the only audacious scamp, he is one of the most audacious of the bunch, so Munk makes a point to spot him amongst the playing and chattering kittens as soon as he passes through the entryway. Luckily he finds his little brother near the far wall, playing some game with Misto.
Nodding once to himself, Munk peels his eyes off of Tugger and scans over the small clearing, searching for any particularly little kittens. The newly-weaned ones tend to bunch up together; they’re too small to do much scampering about, and spend quite a bit of their time sleeping, so Munk’s not surprised to find the cluster right by the side of the broken-desk den, piled on top of each other and sleeping peacefully.
Mostly peacefully. One of them is awake at the edge of the pile, and is flailing on his back in an uncoordinated attempt to grab his toes. Munk watches the little guy squirm like a fluffy worm, smiling as he succeeds in his task and grabs one of his feet in both paws.
“Is it dinnertime?” a little voice interrupts Munk, and he looks down with a smile to find a yellow and white she-kitten standing by his feet.
“Not yet,” Munk informs her with a smile. “Augustus will be coming with your meal in a few hours.”
“Oh,” the kitten says with a cute little frown, smudging her face against his leg before trotting off.
Munk lifts his head and finds with some surprise that the kitten he’d been watching a moment ago is now sitting up and scratching behind his ear, and lo and behold, he has a brown spot over his eye.
Pouncival is the one with stripes, Tumblebrutus is the one with spots, Gus had told him, and by those guidelines Munk figures he must be looking at Pouncival right now. He’s a cute one for sure: small for his age, and clearly infected with a particular case of the wiggles as he peers out over the clearing and then turns towards the huddle beside him. Munk watches with a lopsided smile as Pouncival pushes up to four paws and waggles his behind before jumping atop the pile, disrupting probably several naps and earning a handful of annoyed squeaks along the way.
Taking care to not step on a skittering kitten, Munk crosses the clearing, sending short smiles and waves at kittens who chirp greetings to him along the way. By the time he’s crossed over to the freshly-weaned pile, Pouncival has apparently singled out one particular kitten to harass while the other kittens return to their slumber. Munk’s not surprised to find another white and brown kitten under his paws; Pouncival looks eager to tussle, but Tumblebrutus –that must be Tumblebrutus– is a touch bigger than him and seems unenthusiastic about doing anything more than fending off his striped paws with a few lazy swipes of his own.
Both kittens look over when Munk’s moonlit shadow crosses over them, and he crouches down quickly, eager to look as small and unassuming as possible to a pair of potentially shy kittens.
“Hi, you two,” he says, smiling.
And the very first thing Pouncival says to him as he slips sideways off of Tumblebrutus is, “Not in trouble.”
He says it less like he’s asking for confirmation and more like he’s speaking a non-negotiable truth into being, and Munk snorts a little, tilting his head. “No, Pouncival, you’re not in trouble. I just wanted to introduce myself. My name is–”
“Munk!” Pouncival cuts him off, rather proudly at that.
“S‘it dinnertime?” Tumblebrutus asks then, sitting up.
Munk supposes it’s probably a sign that he’s not spending enough time here if the kittens are beginning to associate his presence with food instead of companionship. But he has so many things to do–
He sighs to himself. Maybe things will cool down a bit as heat season progresses. Though he already did promise himself he’d spend more time one-on-one with Misto once that happened…
Whatever. He’ll do what he can.
“No, Tumblebrutus, it’s not dinnertime quite yet. Augustus will be bringing your dinner later in the night. Do you know Augustus?” Pouncival shakes his head, so Munk explains, “He’s brown and red; he’s brought dinner before.”
“Grumpy one,” Pouncival summarizes with a nod, and Munk can’t help but laugh a little.
“He’s not so bad when you get to know him,” he assures the little kitten, then looks sideways with a sudden frown when Tugger’s head pops into his peripheral vision.
“What are you doing?” his little brother asks, hopping over on four paws. Misto’s following slowly behind him, so Munk sends him a smile and shifts over a little to give the pair room to join them.
“Tugger, Misto, this is Pouncival and Tumblebrutus; they’re going to be staying with us after the season ends.” Munk turns his smile on the two smaller kittens. “This is Tugger and Misto. Tugger is my little brother.”
Tugger mutters something about ‘babies’ that Munk has to at least appreciate that he attempted to keep to himself, though Misto lowers himself down to four paws, tilting his head to look Pouncival in the eye.
“Hi,” he says.
Neither Pouncival nor Tumblebrutus respond right away, so Munk voices one of the fun facts Gus had shared with him about the kittens earlier. “Misto, Gus told me earlier that little Pouncival here has the makings of a ballet cat, just like you and Victoria.”
Misto’s ears perk up, and he settles to sit on his behind. “Do you dance?” he asks Pouncival, and the little kitten tilts his own head before nodding. “Do you know your positions?”
Pouncival doesn’t speak in response, though he does push off of the concrete with his paws to stand on two feet, like he’s going to demonstrate.
Though he doesn’t get far before Tugger steps up to Misto and silently grabs him by the arm, yanking on it so hard that Misto fumbles sideways. A bit amusingly, Munk and Misto both bark, “Tugger!” at the same time.
“What?” Misto demands of his friend in addition, flailing his arm a bit to free it without success.
“This is boring,” Tugger tells him, pulling on his arm again. “Let’s play a game.”
“Tugger,” Munk cuts between them with an elbow, placing a paw on Tugger’s fluffy chest to fend him off. “Leave Misto be. You can go play a game with someone else for now if you’re bored.”
“They’re babies, it’s boring,” Tugger says less to Munk and more to Misto, not releasing him.
Misto waggles his arm again. “Lemme go.”
“Come play with me,” Tugger retorts instead of doing what either Munk or Misto told him to do, so Munk shifts and grabs at his wrist with his other hand.
“Tugger,” he says lowly. “We talked about this a million times; if Misto doesn’t like you touching him then you have to stop.”
Tugger frowns, though he does release Misto, who re-takes his arm and brushes at it while glaring sideways at his friend. “Some of the kittens are playing tag over there,” Munk suggests to his brother, gesturing with his chin at a group of skittering kittens.
“Wanna play with Misto,” is all Tugger says.
Munk pushes him a bit on the chest in dismissal. “Misto will join you in a bit, okay?”
But, “No,” Tugger says, and slips around Munk’s hand and bounces right back up to Misto, grabbing his arm in both paws and yanking him up to his feet. “Come play with me!”
“Tugger!” Munk barks again while the two littler kittens look on, and shifts up onto his knees to grab at his brother again.
This is the last thing he needs right now; he was only supposed to be down here for a few minutes to say hello to the kittens, and Misto’s been one incident after another lately– if he has another episode, here, surrounded by kittens who he already feels certain won’t like him because of his scent, Munk has no idea what kind of effect it’ll have on him.
Munk doesn’t want to manhandle Misto at all, especially when Tugger already is, but he has to grab Misto’s arm in order to pry Tugger off, which isn’t even that successful because he can only target one paw at a time. Misto’s making a whining noise in his throat as he squirms and tries to probably squeeze away from both of them, which sets Munk’s hackles rising in nerves.
“Tugger, if you don’t let go of him right now,” he grits out while peeling one of Tugger’s hands off of Misto’s bicep, the joined pair stumbling as Tugger tries to haul them both away.
“But he’s my friend!” Tugger exclaims, and Munk pauses in his work to frown at him so abruptly that Tugger is able to squeeze his paw from Munk’s to grab Misto’s arm again.
“Tugger,” Munk says while Misto’s feet skid on the pavement below them. “Misto can have more than one friend.”
Tugger shakes his head, brows pinching together while he tries to pull Misto away and Misto tries to squirm off and Munk holds them steady by their joined arms, pushing and pulling and going nowhere.
“Lemme go, Tugger!” Misto says again, this time at more of a whine. Gaze flickering up, Munk grimaces at the attention they’re beginning to attract from the nearby kittens. He doesn’t think Misto has noticed yet, but he will eventually.
“Come play with me!” Tugger pleads in response, in a teary manner that also doesn’t bode well for the situation, so Munk returns to trying to pry Tugger off before this can escalate any further. “Noo–” he whines when Munk pries his one hand off at the wrist, his voice edging up towards a shriek in a way that has Munk folding his ears back.
“You’re going to hurt him, Tugger,” Munk informs his brother with no patience left.
“But he’s my friend!” Tugger shouts again as he fully descends into one of his tantrums.
Since he only has one hand to work with, Munk has to sort of pry Tugger’s right hand off, then wrap his fingers around his left while still clutching the right. If he had literally anyone else here with him this would not be half as difficult, but of course Munk came alone and of course Tugger just has to be difficult, and of course he starts wailing as soon as Munk pries his other hand off, freeing a Mistoffelees who immediately scurries off as soon as he’s given the freedom to do so.
“No!” Tugger wails through tears as Misto makes off and Munk shuffles his paws so he can take one in each hand and stop him from giving chase. “No-oooo, he’s my friend!”
“Tugger–” Munk tries to appeal to his little brother as he tugs on the grip on his wrists, bracing his feet and yanking with all he’s worth as tears start to slide down his face.
“NOO!” Tugger just shrieks over him, and Munk grimaces, ears flattening. “He’s my friend, he’s my friend–”
Munk glances up at the moon. He doesn’t have time for this. With a grunt, he releases Tugger’s arms for a split second– of course the little scamp tries to make a dash for it, but Munk seizes him around the middle and hauls him up into his arms, wailing the whole way.
“HE’S MYYY FRIEEEND–”
He’s starting to get a little big to be held, and Munk struggles to keep a grip on his flailing brother as he kicks and squirms and shrieks right in his ear. Despite Tugger’s efforts, Munk does manage to haul him from the kittens’ den, under the watchful eye of the entire little clearing as they go. Of course this is far from the first time Tugger has thrown such an impressive tantrum, so Munk can’t imagine any of them are surprised except for the youngest of them. And what a good first impression he’s given little Pouncival and Tumblebrutus, Munk figures darkly as he plops still-screeching Tugger down on the concrete outside the kittens’ den clearing.
“TUGGER!” he shouts over the noise, but Tugger doesn’t pay him any mind over his own wailing. Munk glances up at the moon again; Everlasting knows how long it’ll take Tugger to give up, and Munk can’t just drop him off in the main clearing now of all times of the year. Can’t leave him in the kittens’ den to terrorize the others either.
“–MYYYYYYY FRIEEEEEEEE–”
“Tugger,” Munk starts with some carefully summoned patience. “I’ll give you two choices.”
Tugger, the little faker that he is, calms somewhat almost right away, pouting at Munk as he sniffs and swipes at his teary face with the back of a paw.
“Either you promise to leave Misto alone while he plays with the kittens–” Munk watches Tugger’s face scrunch up as he realizes his tantrum hasn’t worked. “Or I can take you with me to walk Dad back to his humans’ place. Hm? What’ll it be?”
~
“Sorry, Dad,” Munkustrap greets his father just outside the main clearing a little while later, Tugger thrown over his shoulder like a sack of yarn balls. “Tugger was causing problems again.”
“–EEEEE’S MY FRIEEEEEEEENDD–” Tugger’s wail is almost lost in the nearby chatter of the clearing.
“Aw, poor Tugger,” Deuteronomy says with his eyes crinkled as he pushes off the box he’d been sitting on, and as the last couple cats hanging about him scutter off, sending annoyed glances over their shoulders Tugger’s way.
“There’s no ‘poor Tugger’ here,” Munk informs him stiffly, while Deuteronomy tilts his head and tries to catch Tugger’s eye.
“What happened, Tugger?” Deuteronomy prompts the little scamp; Tugger responds only with another wail right in Munk’s ear.
Munk grimaces and shifts his hold on Tugger to get him away from his ears. “He was harassing Misto. Again. I know he’s being a pain, but he’s got ten minutes or less in him, I’m sure.”
“Misto?” Deuteronomy echoes, falling into step with Munk when he turns to go. “You got in a fight with Misto, Tugger?”
“NOO!” Tugger sobs; he’s been ‘crying’ for so long that he clearly doesn’t have any tears left, and even the damp tracks splitting the fur on his cheeks are starting to dry. Like Munk said, he’ll give up soon.
“Misto was talking to the new kittens and Tugger decided he didn’t like that,” Munk explains shortly.
“–E’s mYY FRiiieeeeEEND–”
“It’s alright, Tugger,” Deuteronomy assures him with patience and warmth Tugger definitely doesn’t deserve at this point. “Cats can have lots of friends, and Misto will still have plenty of time for you even with these new kittens in the tribe.”
Tugger scrubs at his eye with a paw, only responding with a weak, “Noo.”
“You don’t think so?” Deuteronomy prompts, and Tugger makes a scrunched-up face at him in response. “Those new kittens are very small, Tugger. Misto won’t be able to play ball or chase with them like he does with you. You’ll still get to play together.”
Munk grunts when Tugger pulls himself up with a hand twisted in Munk’s fluff, like he’s trying to climb up to sit on his shoulders. Apparently he’s done pretending to be a dead weight, so Munk pushes up on the bottoms of his back paws to help haul him up. Tugger crosses his arms atop Munk’s head once he’s settled, and rests his chin atop them, not acknowledging Deuteronomy’s point.
He’s honestly not sure if Tugger just happened to run out of oomph at the same time their father started talking, or if that’s Deuteronomy’s usual impact on kittens doing its work. Maybe both. Either way Munk can’t not take the opportunity to drive the point home.
“Tugger, Misto making friends with a couple of kittens his sister’s age isn’t going to have any effect on your friendship. You throwing a tantrum every time the two of you disagree, and grabbing at him, however, is actually very likely to make Misto not want to play with you.” Tugger responds with only a sniff, so Munk adds, “I told you before; you can hurt Misto if you’re not careful. You very easily could’ve caused another situation like the one with the pillbug earlier, and Misto would not be happy with you if you did. Neither would I.”
Tugger’s response is muttered so quietly Munk almost doesn’t catch it with the roar of the clearing fading behind them. “Wasn’t gonna hurt him.”
“You were hurting him,” Munk retorts, annoyed. “You could’ve hurt him worse if I hadn’t done something.”
“They’re just dumb babies.”
Munk rolls his eyes. “Kittens aren’t dumb, Tugger, and Misto taking time out of his night to make them feel welcome here also isn’t dumb; it’s very nice of him. But even if it were dumb, it’s Misto’s choice if he wants to waste his time on something you find dumb.”
“You know, Tugger,” Deuteronomy speaks up when Tugger doesn’t say anything, trotting alongside Munk. “I spoke to little Mistoffelees just earlier tonight; he couldn’t sleep because he’d been sad.”
“Not special,” Tugger mutters tearily; Munk’s not sure if he means Deuteronomy speaking to Misto or Misto being sad.
“We spoke about you,” Deuteronomy continues, and Munk can feel Tugger shuffle as he turns his head to peer at their father. “He said he thought you were sad. And that he wanted you to feel better.”
For a moment Munk thinks his father is actually lying, but then he belatedly remembers Misto’s request from earlier: can you make Tugger’s mother go away forever?
“Not sad,” Tugger grouches.
“Not at all?” Deuteronomy prompts without looking at the curve they’re trotting down. “Not after speaking to Jezorah the other night?”
Tugger doesn’t reply.
“Misto cares about you, Tugger,” Deuteronomy says over the fading sound of the clearing behind them. “Playing with the other kittens won’t change that.”
The rest of the walk to Deuteronomy’s humans’ is quiet, but the silence only gives Munkustrap time to dwell on what his father had said. He hasn’t noticed any particular changes in Tugger’s behavior since his talk with Jezorah, but of course Misto spends more time with Tugger and may have a closer perspective as to what’s on his mind as a fellow kitten.
And it’s sweet, of course, that Misto might have noticed that Tugger was upset and took initiative to help improve his friend’s mood. By requesting that Jezorah be put to death technically, but of course he’s too young to understand what death really is or what he was actually asking for.
Though the funniest thing about that request is that Munk hadn’t entirely disagreed. Not with killing Tugger’s mother of course, but Munk would be happy to forbid her from visiting for the foreseeable future. He’s never liked Jezorah’s little visits or her attitude towards Tugger; she treats him like an accessory. Tugger’s young, and an audacious little scamp at that, but he deserves respect just as much as any cat. If Jezorah can’t be bothered to invest five minutes out of her entire year to sit and actually spend time with her son, then she doesn’t deserve to see him at all.
And Tugger getting territorial over Misto is annoying and immature, even for his age, but in a way Munk can’t blame him for wanting to exert some control over his interpersonal relationships. It’s not like Tugger can grab Jezorah or Deuteronomy or even Munkustrap himself by the arm and insist they spend more time with him. Of course Munk’s always around when it’s not the busiest season of the year, and of course Deuteronomy makes as much time for the little scamp as he can, but Munk can’t imagine that means much for a little kitten with no perspective on the importance of work and legacy and the junkyard at large.
He'd love to just remove Jezorah from the equation altogether. She’s no good for Tugger and does nothing for him, but Munk can hardly argue with the wisdom of his father or Jenny’s heartfelt pleas on the subject.
It’s important for a cat to know his mother, he keeps being told. Not many get that privilege.
And Munk knows that. He hasn’t seen his own mother in a long, long time. She never gave much of a damn about him either, when she was still around.
But–
Munk has to remove Tugger from his shoulders so that he can prop up the broken slat in Deuteronomy’s fence for them, and Tugger scurries onto the manicured lawn with Deuteronomy following close behind. Munk drops the fence post and steps onto the grass himself, letting it thwap back into place behind him.
“Dad,” Munk says quietly, standing there by the hole in the fence. It doesn’t look like Deuteronomy’s humans are hanging about, so he only gives Tugger scampering after a windborn leaf a passing glance. Deuteronomy turns to face Munk with his brows raised and a smile on his face.
“Thank you for walking me down here, Munkustrap,” his father says, and Munk passingly smiles at him in return.
“Right, no problem. I just–” He glances over at Tugger hopping past a flowerpot, then returns his gaze to his father’s face. “I know we already talked about Jezorah, but–”
Deuteronomy’s smile goes a little crooked, and he tilts his head, stealing some of Munk’s nerve.
“I just…” He gestures over at Tugger. “I understand what you and Jenny always say about knowing your family, but I don’t think she’s good for Tugger. You heard Misto the other night; he said he thought Jezorah didn’t like Tugger. If Misto of all cats is getting that impression after one five second meeting… then what could Tugger possibly be thinking?”
Deuteronomy thinks on his point for a moment, brows low and expression troubled. “I… don’t disagree with you, Munkustrap. I wish Jezorah would be more attentive as well. But I can’t force her to pay more attention to Tugger, just as much as I can’t force Tugger to behave or force the moon to change its phase. Cats are who they are.”
“I know,” Munk agrees, already resigned to where this conversation is headed.
“And I must…” Deuteronomy trails off for a moment. “I must think about where you’re headed. All of you. Where Tugger is headed, where Jezorah is headed. If I separate the two, forbid Jezorah from visiting, Tugger will grow up with little to no memory of his mother. Is that something he’ll come to regret? Trying to remember the shape of her eyes or the melody of her voice, and failing each time? I can see Jezorah’s visits cause him pain, but what might the alternative be? He won’t have a father for forever, shall I deprive him of a mother, too?”
“Of course,” Munk says softly.
Deuteronomy’s smile ticks up at the corners. “You want what’s best for him. I do, too. But the pain of a few short visits right now might be far less than the pain of lost memories down the line. If I could take away every sorrow he’ll ever experience, I would. In an instant. But I can’t protect him from everything for forever. Neither can you. Some things… simply cannot be avoided. They’ll hurt either way.”
With a roll of his great shoulders, Deuteronomy twists to watch Tugger prance over the line of stones that separates the grass from the garden.
“Besides,” he adds, turning back to Munk. “I’m less worried for him than I was.”
“Why is that?” Munk can’t help but ask.
“Because he has Mistoffelees,” Deuteronomy responds with a smile.
~
Deuteronomy’s argument had been well-worded. And heartfelt, to say the least.
“Stay out of the road, Tugger.”
But forget Jezorah, by the time they’re nearing the junkyard on the walk back, Munk’s ready to strangle his brother himself.
“Why,” Tugger responds, perched on the very edge of the tiled path running alongside the blacktop road.
“Because I don’t want you to get hit by a car,” Munk grouches in response, eyeing him and the empty road before them.
“There aren’t any.”
Munk sighs. He’s been this poorly behaved the whole walk home. He has no idea if Tugger is annoyed that his tantrum didn’t work or if something Deuteronomy had said threw him off. Sometimes speaking with their father puts Tugger into a funk; Everlasting knows why.
Munk has more important things to do right now than figure it out. “Come on, the entrance to the Yard is just around the bend.”
~
They return to the kittens’ den just in time for dinner, it seems. Most of the portions have been passed out by the time he and Tugger duck through the entrance and make their way over to Augustus handing out jerky strips to the last few kittens with their paws upraised.
Munk of course immediately seeks out Misto amongst the munching groups scattered through the small clearing, and finds him sitting in a small circle amongst little Tumblebrutus, Pouncival, and Victoria. The corner of Munk’s mouth ticks up; he must’ve introduced the boys to his sister. How cute. And it also looks like he’s helping rip their jerky portions into little bite-sized pieces the way he always eats his, tearing what looks like Tumblebrutus’s portion into strips.
Munk glances down at Tugger by his feet, and finds his brother also looking their way, ears flat. With a sigh, he mentally prepares himself for another tantrum to rear its head, but Tugger says nothing and turns to trot towards Augustus. With another glance over at Mistoffelees and his sleepy-eyed posse, Munkustrap follows after his brother.
There aren’t many kittens left waiting for their share, but Tugger still squirms his way through the sparse crowd in a pushy manner that Munk would call out pretty much any other time. Augustus probably didn’t notice Tugger worming his way past the other patient kittens, because he passes a jerky strip down to Tugger as soon as he lifts his paws up.
Munk stops at Augustus’s side and crosses his arms, watching Tugger leave the huddle with his jerky in his paws. Once again Munk expects him to make a break for it towards Misto or something, but he just distances himself from the supplicating hungry kittens and plops down to sit near Munk’s feet, immediately jamming his dinner into his mouth to gnaw on it.
Smiling, Munk bends at the hips to address his brother. “That’s a very grown-up decision you just made, Tugger.”
Tugger glares up at Munk through his eyelashes, then removes the jerky from his mouth to say, “Can I have another one.”
Munk raises his brows, but he does straighten and look over at Augustus as he hands a black and red tomkitten a portion from the dinner basket. “Is there enough for everyone?”
“Plenty,” Augustus says.
Despite his efforts and despite his prayers, Munk has a feeling Tugger just might always be difficult. Given what his mother is like, it may be in his blood. But that doesn’t mean Munk’s going to give up on him, and he was taught to reward good behavior when he wants to see more of it. So he feels no regret taking one of the extra portions from Augustus and passing it down to his little brother.
Maybe some things just aren’t meant to be easy.
~
Augustus finishes passing out his portions and makes himself scarce not after long, but Munk remains, watching over the feasting kittens with fondness. The little ones tend to pass out rather quickly after their dinners, and it looks like tonight is no exception to that rule. A couple games of teatime and ball are slowly beginning to develop in the wake of the jerky, but there are by far more sleepy faces lounging throughout the clearing, bundled together in groups or scattered across the concrete. Alonzo looks to be already asleep atop a small crate by the entrance, and Tugger is lying on his back at Munk’s feet, blearily gazing up at the sky. The new kittens and Victoria have re-joined the newly-weened huddle under Misto’s watchful eye, curled up together and breathing peacefully in sleep.
Munk smiles while watching Misto linger beside the huddle, paws on his hips and peering down at the sleeping kittens. It’s not the first time Munk’s had the thought, but it charms him how Misto’s had such difficulty adjusting to the junkyard, but he’s always there for his little sister. Victoria is a lucky little lady to have such an attentive older brother.
After seemingly concluding that his work is done, Misto drops his paws and turns away from the peaceful huddle. Munk watches him cross groups of lounging and idly playing kittens until he comes across an abandoned pile of toys; he plucks up a ball from the mess and promptly returns the way he came, circling the clearing again the opposite way.
At first he’d thought Misto had been looking for a clear spot to play by himself, but the smile on his face stretches when Misto makes his way over to him at a businesslike pace. Apparently rather focused, he doesn’t spare a glance for Munk and heads straight towards Tugger, lying there with his eyes now closed.
Stopping before Tugger, Misto peers down at his friend below him for a moment, then lifts the ball above his head and chucks it down at Tugger’s belly.
“AGCK!” Tugger yelps as he jackknives off the concrete. Misto laughs at him while the ball ricochets off towards the center of the clearing and he drops onto four paws.
“Got you!” he chirps, and then turns and bounds off.
Tugger takes a second to flail and sit up, and then another second to seemingly process what just happened to him. He looks quickly between giggling Misto scampering away and then up at Munk, brows high.
“I think that means he wants to play with you now,” Munk informs him with a smile.
Tugger shakes his head and shoulders out, ears flapping a bit as his fur goes every which way. Then he grins and pops onto his paws, tearing after Misto with a cheery yell.
Chapter 13
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
The junkyard feels quieter in his father’s absence.
Normally Munk swears it’s the other way around and every problem that could possibly arise does so the second Deuteronomy’s paws cross the junkyard threshold. But the next couple nights pass mostly in peace; Munk’s singular headache is his inability to gather together a couple toms to close up the kittens’ den. Every time he thinks he has a group, someone bows out last second or some minor unrelated problem he has to address arises.
Augustus keeps telling him they can do it when Skimble arrives for his bi-monthly visit, so Munk is pleased when he hears from Jelly early on the third night of his father’s absence that the railway cat is in the clearing. Of course he’s thrilled to close up the kittens’ den (he’s shocked that another incident hasn’t occurred since the one with Tugger and Misto), but he’s certainly happy to see Skimble again too.
By the time Munk finishes feeding the kittens with Jelly and sets out to the clearing it appears Skimble has already made himself scarce, so Munk has to ask around a little to figure out where he went. The milk bar, as it turns out; a little clearing where junkyard regulars tend to hang out, with a long line of junk that looks a bit like a bar. Kittens aren’t allowed in the milk bar (mostly to keep them out of the adults’ fur) and even grown as he is, Munk still feels a little like he’s misbehaving each time he ventures within.
Despite his nerves as he ducks through the milk bar’s entrance, he does find Skimble sitting near the end of the bar, perched on a stack of wooden boards placed in front of an old crate. He has several admirers hanging about, listening with pricked ears while he tells some story or another.
Skimble doesn’t serve queens during heat season– Munk doesn’t know if he refrains because his timetables with the train just don’t work out or if he has his own reasons. He’s never asked because it’s certainly not his business, but Munk’s met many queens who bemoan this fact; it appears quite a few of them are sitting at the bar with Skimble, listening with curved smiles and absent gazes.
“Munk!” Skimble greets when he glances up to find Munk crossing over towards the bar. “Looks like everything’s been running smoothly!”
Heat season hadn’t begun when Skimble left for the train last time, and he’d been very apologetic about leaving Munk to fend for himself for the upcoming season. But as much as Munk appreciated the help, he’s not a kitten and handling heat season is supposed to be his job. And Skimble has a responsibility to his humans anyways, so he shouldn’t have felt bad for leaving.
“It’s been alright,” Munk agrees mildly, paws clasped together in front of him.
“Did you hear?” Skimble adds as Munk slows beside him, his admirers watching on.
“Hear?” Munk echoes with a frown.
“Jenny went into heat not an hour ago, rather abruptly. Augustus is accompanying her.”
“DAMN it!” Munk unfortunately can’t help but shout, earning the attention of several nearby cats.
Skimble raises his brows. “What?”
“Oh, Augustus was going to help me with– never mind,” Munk sighs, lifting a paw to press the fur atop his head back. “It’s nothing urgent.”
“He mentioned something about the door to the kittens’ den when I saw him earlier.”
“Yeah,” Munk mutters. “The three of us were going to put it back. I’ve had a couple colony cats asking me when it’s going to be done, but you need at least three people.” He gestures with a shoulder. “When Deuteronomy asks, every large tom on this side of the Yard jumps to help out; when I ask, crickets.”
“I can hop down to the kittens’ den now, Munk. Maybe we can flag down someone checking on the little ones to help out.”
“No,” Munk insists, shifting his weight to one foot. “I don’t want to put anyone on the spot. I can ask around again, I’m sure I’ll find someone willing to help us out eventually.”
“I can ask a few people,” Skimble suggests. “And if I can’t flag anyone down, I’m sure Gus’ll be able to twist a few arms.”
“Maybe.” Munk admits. It seems more likely Gus might try and volunteer himself to help with the heavy door, which’ll end poorly for everyone involved.
Skimble stands, earning a few frowns from his admirers. “I’ll ask around; you track down the old man, hm? We can all meet at the kittens’ den in a quarter hour.”
And of course after that Munk spends upwards of ten minutes combing the junkyard and not finding Gus. After searching the clearing, Jelly’s den, and all of the old man’s regular haunts, Munk eventually finds him in the kittens’ den– after he’d given up searching and resigned himself to meet up with Skimble empty-handed.
He’s telling a story about one of the mousers at his old theater: a supposedly brawny brown cat named Ritterton who’d apparently held a one-sided grudge against Gus for years. Munk knows a few of the mousers that Gus is acquainted with, and has never met a Ritterton or heard his name mentioned. Which probably means he doesn’t exist. But Ritterton’s legitimacy aside, Munk’s heard this particular tale before, and so has many of their kitten regulars. Of course that doesn’t stop them from enjoying it, and Munk pauses in the entryway to the kittens’ den when he sees the old man and the riveted pile of kittens before him.
“And I dashed around the corner as fast as my paws would take me– this was a long time ago, see, and back in those nights I was quite the runner and an even better climber,” Gus informs the kittens with a paw plastered to his chest. “But Ritterton had been right on my heels, and there were no piles to climb in the theater. But unluckily for ol’ Ritterton, I’ve always been a quick thinker as well, so I–”
“Gus?” Munk cuts into the story, smiling when Gus looks up and groans at the sight of Munk standing there, and the kittens join in with him. “Sorry to interrupt,” he adds over the harmony. “But Skimble and I wanted to borrow you for a bit, and he’ll be here any minute now.”
“Can’t it wait?” one of the kittens demands, and Munk snorts to himself.
“It won’t take long,” Munk assures the little one. “And when we’re done, you all can remind Gus where he left off.”
“I never forget where I leave a story, Straps!” Gus informs him as he pushes up to his feet, atop the upturned crate he’d been using to sit on. The kitten huddle promptly disperses as soon as they deduce that their entertainment is over for now, breaking off into groups and scampering about in preparation to play.
“You messed up the wall over there,” Munk informs Gus with a smile, nodding at the slumping pile of junk that Munk imagines he’d yanked that crate out of.
Gus glances over his shoulder before he slows in front of Munk. “I’m old, Straps. If there’s no chair, I make one.”
Munk rolls his eyes; he’ll have some of the kittens gather up the bits and bobs that appear to have scattered from Gus’s mess-making later. It looks like Misto is already investigating what looks like a broken doorknob by Gus’s abandoned seat, Tugger scampering up behind him.
“Need something?” Gus continues, brushing off one shoulder.
“Skimble and I are looking for a third to help us replace the kittens’ den door where it should be,” Munk tells him.
“I could help,” Gus predictably volunteers. “I’m spry enough. Though I gotta say, I like it better down. Easier to get in and out of here.”
Munk gestures loosely at Tugger over Gus’s shoulder as he pounces atop Misto. “The longer we leave it up, the more likely Tugger is to walk right out of here. Again. While taking half of the kittens along with him this time.”
Gus twists to watch Misto and Tugger (currently very busy with their special little version of wrestling in which Tugger clearly goes very easy on Misto and Misto gets thrilled about ‘winning’ just about every time). “To be honest,” he figures as he turns back around, “I’m a bit surprised he hasn’t tried it already.”
“I wouldn’t be shocked if the whole lightning thing made him think twice about ‘adventuring’,” Munk says. “Though who knows how long that’ll last. Skimble said he’d look for a third for the door, but if he didn’t find anyone, I figured you of all cats would have a couple favors to pull.”
Gus predictably chuckles, waggling a finger at Munk. “You know that I always do, Straps. Half the colony cats in this damn junkyard owe me for something or other.”
“I’m sure,” Munk responds, trying not to sound amused.
“I can ask around; certainly someone’s got a young tom in their colony who’s in need of a task or two to straighten him out. Fanriella might have someone,” he considers to himself, trailing off a bit in thought.
Still smiling, Munk looks down when Tugger comes trotting up to his and Gus’s spot by the entrance, apparently through with hassling Misto. He glances briefly up and finds that Misto is cheerily smacking a jingle bell by himself right where the pair had been wrestling mere moments ago.
“Something up?” he greets his brother when he stops between Munk and Gus, frowning down at his hand.
In response Tugger just continues staring at his paw.
Munk sends Gus a glance and then crouches down, trying to smile through the uncharacteristic silence. “Tugger?”
Without a word, Tugger lifts his hand to show Munk the blood smeared across his fingers.
“Shit,” comes out of Munk’s mouth before he can censor himself, and he folds down to his knees, taking Tugger’s hand in his own. “Are you okay, what happen–”
Tugger snatches his paw back. “It’s not mine.”
“Are you sure?” Munk prompts. “Where is it from, then?”
He leans forward and takes Tugger’s hand again, pulling when he tries to resist. He thinks for a second that the mark might be rust, because it’s only red-ish and clearly half-dried and flaky, but the color is unmistakably of blood and not any kind of mud or rust that Munk’s familiar with. Smearing the half-dried smudge away reveals no wound underneath, so Tugger must be correct that it’s not his.
And then Munk frowns, remembering how he’d spotted Tugger and Misto wrestling only seconds ago. He releases Tugger’s hand to frown at him. “What did you do to Misto?”
“Didn't do anything to him,” Tugger grouches back. “We were just playing and then there was blood on me.”
Munk twists to look back up at Gus, expression grave. Maybe there’s a perfectly plausible and harmless reason Misto is bleeding –maybe he caught a claw on something, or scraped a knee– but knowing Misto, Munk has a sinking feeling that something more severe is going on here.
Not again, he thinks in slowly growing dread. It hasn’t even been a full week since the lightning incident and the scent issue that followed right afterwards. Misto’d been doing so good the last couple nights; he still has yet to bring up the whole lightning saga, but Munk knows he now sleeps in the corner of the extended den with Tugger at his side, so it doesn’t seem he’s had any issues with the other kittens reacting to his scent so far.
“How about you bring him out onto the path for a minute, Munk,” Gus suggests as Munk stands back up. “We’ll look him over without the whole gang spectating.”
“Right,” Munk says, glancing back at Misto still playing with his bell.
“I’ll wait for you out there.” Gus gestures over Munk’s shoulder at the path. “Don’t want to hover about since the kid doesn’t like me much.”
Gus trots off and Munk stands, crossing his arms over his chest as he spends a moment eyeing Misto. He looks utterly fine. He doesn’t treat any of his paws gingerly, like Munk would expect from a kitten who’d snagged a claw or something of the like. He doesn’t have any visible cuts or scrapes, doesn’t move warily or slowly, doesn’t favor either side. He looks perfectly happy smacking around his bell. As a matter of fact, he seems like he’s in an excellent mood.
Hopefully it’s nothing. Munk’ll pat him down on the path, and if Misto asks, Munk’ll say he’s just making sure that the lightning incident didn’t cause any residual harm. He should have spoken to Misto about all of that anyways; he’s been waiting for Misto to bring it up like Deuteronomy had suggested, but a gentle reminder that he’s not in any trouble over all of that business might encourage the little guy to ask any questions he may have.
That sounds like a good idea. Munk starts over without another word, ignoring Tugger scampering up behind him.
He has to side-step a few groups of playing kittens, but he eventually approaches the crate and Misto sitting in the shadow of it with his nerves bundled tightly within his chest. “Misto,” he greets as he stops before the little guy, trying to smile. “Want to go on another walk with me?”
Misto pauses, jingle bell sitting on the concrete within a couple tail-widths of his fingers. He stares up at Munk for a moment, then retracts his paw. “A walk?”
“Yep, just a walk. You and me.”
“And me,” Tugger adds, though he certainly wasn’t invited along. Munk gazes down at him with a frown, then decides it’s not worth fighting.
Misto very clearly knows something is up already; Munk’s never been a great actor. He peers to the side in a long moment of silence, then pushes up to his feet.
“Okay…”
He probably thinks he has to, given how reluctant his voice is. But to be fair, he does have to, and Munk wants to get him away from any prying kitten eyes without any fuss, so he doesn’t bother checking in with Misto any further and stoops down to pick him up.
Misto’s not stupid.
“We’ll go on our quick little walk,” Munk says as he hauls Misto up under the arms, a smile on his face and in his voice. “And then we’ll get a snack afterward.”
Misto rests his paw on Munk’s shoulder as he settles Misto on his hip and then briskly turns to leave the kittens’ den, Tugger following on the ground behind them.
Munk probably thinks he’s stupid, given everything Misto’s done, but he’s not. He’s not stupid and he has ears, and he heard Munk say a minute ago to the whole kittens’ den that he and Gus are waiting for Skimble to show up. He said he needs to fix the door to the kittens’ den, which means he should have no time for a walk. He hasn’t had time for a walk in nights; he’s been busy because of heat season.
So he’s lying. Misto doesn’t know why, but he’s lying.
And he wilts a little when Munk leads them through the kittens’ den entrance and he finds that old Gus is standing just up the path, waiting for them with his arms crossed. Jenny and Jelly keep telling him that Gus is very nice, but Misto doesn’t like the loud laugh he does when he tells stories about the pirate Growltiger.
“Here, Misto,” Munk says as they trot up to Gus, “before we go get our snack, how about we stop here for a second.”
“I don’t wanna stop here,” Misto says very smally, and is ignored. “Munk,” he adds a little louder as Munk crouches down; he makes like he’s going to set Misto on the concrete, but Misto grips tightly to his torso with all of his paws, ears folding back in nervousness. “I d-don’t wanna stop here.”
“It’s alright,” Munk says in Misto’s ear. “We’ll only be a minute.”
“I d-don’t wanna.”
“You don’t have to be frightened–”
“I’m not f-frightened–” Misto lies a little, watching Tugger circle around his brother with wide eyes. “I just– want to go back to the kittens’ den.”
Munk is silent for a moment. “Do you not feel good?”
“Yes,” Misto quickly latches onto that excuse.
Munk settles a bit on his knees and wraps a hand just under Misto’s arm, gently prying him off. Misto makes a little noise in his throat and releases his grip around Munk’s shoulders reluctantly, allowing himself to be set down onto the concrete in slowly-growing fear.
Munk smiles at Misto, holding onto him around the middle. It’s not his normal smile, though Misto can’t pinpoint what about it feels not-normal, and that makes him stiffen even more so in nerves. “Does something hurt?”
“No. I just don’t feel good.”
“What part of you doesn’t feel good?”
Misto shrugs, glancing over at old Gus and the shadow he casts over Misto’s shoulder as he swallows. “I don’t know.”
Munk considers that for a moment, then shuffles a bit closer. “How about this, Misto,” he offers. “I’ll check you over to make sure you’re not hurt, and then we can go back to the kittens’ den. You'll still get a snack.”
Misto curls his paws together, frowning. “I’m not hurt. I just–” He sticks a bit. “–don’t feel good.”
“Is it your insides or your outsides that don’t feel good?”
“I don’t know,” Misto mutters, glancing up from his paws to only briefly eye Tugger standing beside his brother, watching and offering no help at all.
He stiffens when Gus speaks up, but his voice is quiet, so much so it’s as if he doesn’t want Misto to hear him. “Maybe the kid was just bitten by something.”
“Bitten by something?” Misto echoes incredulously. He can’t help but reach up to scratch behind his ear, and he also can’t help but flinch at the sharp pain that’s been following lately.
“Does your ear hurt, Misto?” Munk immediately says, his own ears pricking up.
“No,” Misto squeezes out, snapping his paw down to grasp the other one. He doesn’t want anyone looking at his ear.
“Misto,” Munk says quickly. “It’ll only take a few seconds. Ten. I’ll count them with you. All I want to do is check your ear.”
“My ear’s f-fine.” He looks over at Tugger again, though he doesn’t offer Misto any help, just keeps standing there.
“You probably just have a flea or two, Misto, nothing–"
“Fleas?” Misto echoes, voice pitching up by far too high. “I d-don’t have fleas!”
“Just let me check,” Munk insists, and tightens his grip under Misto’s arms to scoop him up before Misto can say anything else.
“I don’t!” Misto exclaims, kicking his feet when Munk lifts him. He tries to squirm away after Munk settles him onto his lap– he doesn’t want to be bad, but his ear has been hurting for a while now, and after the bug thing and the lightning thing and the scent thing Misto really doesn’t need Munk to discover another wrong thing about him.
“It’s alright, Misto,” Munk says in a soothing voice, and hooks his arm around Misto’s chest to pull him back in. “Ten seconds, that’s all.”
“I d-don’t want to!” Misto wiggles, trying to escape, but Munk’s grip is like iron. He feels fingers on his head and jerks it to the side with a noise of panic, cheek to his shoulder.
He doesn’t want anyone looking at his ear. When wiggling gets him nowhere, Misto kicks his legs out with another noise, louder this time, and tries to thrash away with more verve.
“Misto, Misto–” Munk grunts when Misto elbows him in the chest mid-flail; Misto nearly manages to escape sideways when Munk shifts, but Munk just uses his other arm to scoop Misto up under the knees as well. Misto shrieks when escape is taken from him, terrified and brainless. “Gus–”
Munk scoops Misto bodily up and pins him against his front, leaving Misto only able to wiggle. His best efforts barely free his left arm, which accomplishes nothing when he pins his hand to Munk’s shoulder and tries to pry himself away. He can only shriek again in terror when Gus settles down beside Munk, closer than Misto’s ever wanted the scary old cat to be, and takes Misto’s head between his cold palms from behind.
“Misto, it’s alright,” Munk tells him in a too-even voice. “You’re almost done.”
“I don’t have f-f-fleas!” Misto whines; he shakes his head rapidly to keep Gus’s paws away, hand still pressed to Munk’s shoulder. “I don’t– I don’t–” He sniffs, blinking panicked tears out of his eyes. His gaze falls upon Tugger standing just behind Munk, watching with a pinched expression, and Misto uses his only free hand to reach out for him. “Tugger…”
“Nope,” Munk grunts, and twists to the side to hold Misto the other way; Gus shuffles back and takes Misto’s head again, fingers near the base of his ear. He smells funny, like fish, and Misto loses the battle with the tears he’d been fighting, sobbing as he makes another failed attempt to wrench himself away.
“I don’t h-h-have f-fleas!” he sobs as he roughly shakes his head again.
Gus makes an annoyed noise behind him as his grip is dislodged again. “Kid’s slippery like an eel.”
“Take your time,” Munk grunts back quietly while Misto wails and kicks out his legs, still hopelessly trapped.
He doesn’t want anyone looking at his ear. He used his magic to hurt other cats, Munk’s voice echoes in Misto’s head while tears run down his cheeks and his breath tries to catch in his throat. So we sent him away.
“What’s going on here?” a new voice calls over right as Gus grabs him again; Misto nearly chokes on his own breath in surprise as a pair of legs circles around Munk’s side. Jerking his head out of Gus’s grip again, he lifts his chin to find Skimble smiling down at him.
“Skimble–” Munk starts.
“I remember you,” Skimble cuts over whatever Munk’d been about to say, crouching down before Misto. “Little Mistoffelees! We met a few weeks ago; I don’t suppose you remember me, do you?”
Misto sniffs shakily, and uses his freed hand to wipe at the tears on his face. It’s not often cats address Misto for any reason, and certainly not when there are other adults around, clearly in the middle of something. “Sk-Sk-Skimble.”
“A smart lad!” Skimble chirps. “I was just thinking about you the other night, Misto, after our meeting. I met a cat back in Glasgow that looks just like you, down to the spot on your knee. Any family in Scotland?”
Misto sniffs again. “No?”
“Oh, well, sometimes cats just look alike.” Misto flinches when Gus takes the back of his head again, jerking in a sharp breath. Skimble speaks up before Misto can defend himself though, voice raised a little. “I heard you can do tricks. That’s very impressive, you know. I have a couple tricks myself, see?”
He then brings his paw around from his back, and makes a little gesture with his closed fist near Misto’s shoulder. Then he brings his paw between them and uncurls his fingers, revealing a bell in his palm.
A little confused, Misto sniffs again, unsure if he was supposed to find that impressive. “You had th-that in your h-hand.”
“So I did,” Skimble says with a smile. “You’re very astute, little Misto.”
“…What d-does that mean?”
“It means you see quite a bit.”
Well of course Misto saw him do that. It was pretty obvious he got the bell from his pocket. Misto flinches again when Gus touches the back of his head, not grabbing this time, but he still jerks up his shoulders and kicks out in sudden memory of the severity of the situation.
“You’ve hurt your ear, I see,” Skimble speaks up again, and Misto startles a bit when he holds out the bell once more, this time very close to Misto’s face. “We’ve all had our scratches and bumps; it’s alright. This is for you.”
Misto sniffs again. He knows perfectly well Skimble probably wouldn’t be so nice about Misto’s ear if he knew how it got hurt, but he takes the bell in front of his face with his freed paw, clasping it tightly, and Skimble retracts his paw.
“I live on a train, with humans– you know this, you’ve heard me perform,” he explains brightly, “But you should see the things the human kittens do to themselves. They don’t have fur to protect themselves, and they can make bloody messes of their elbows and knees while playing. Clumsy things, human kittens. They don’t walk on four legs like sensible creatures. Always falling down.”
Misto didn’t even know humans have their own kittens. It makes sense, he supposes. “Oh.”
“They’re all over on the train, and at least the grown ones know their clumsiness and move slowly. But every night there’s a wailing kitten with a scraped knee. And the humans always give them a treat when they’re brave about it; one thing they do right, I suppose.”
Misto is then rather incredibly startled when Munk releases him right after that, twisting a bit to set Misto onto his paws.
“See, not so bad,” Munk says, but his gaze is up on Gus’s face as he stands back up behind Misto; Misto twists to keep the old man in his sight, and finds his forehead wrinkles even more wrinkly than normal.
“Lemme talk to you for a second, Straps,” he says in a soft voice.
Misto glances between Munk and Skimble, nervous again. He’s not sure what to make of the look on Gus’s face, and he’s not sure how much a cat can learn about a wound just by looking at it. He may already know. Misto presses his mouth shut tight, holding his paws before him in fear that begins to grow once again.
“Here,” Skimble says when Munk immediately stands, stepping around Misto without another word. “How about we head back to the kittens’ den while they talk about their adult nonsense.”
“Munk said we’d get a snack,” Tugger informs him.
Skimble smiles a little thinly at Tugger. “Then he’ll go fetch you something as soon as he’s done with Gus. Come along now.”
Skimble promptly shoos Misto and Tugger back through the kittens’ den entrance, and Misto stumbles within the small clearing, scrubbing at his damp face. A few of the kittens playing near the entrance glance at them –they probably heard him yelling, Misto realizes with embarrassment– but their attention doesn’t last and they quickly return to their games.
As soon as they’re through the entrance Skimble turns on his heel and goes to join Munk and Gus, leaving Misto and Tugger standing there while the other kittens scamper about.
Misto sniffs again and turns to Tugger for answers. “W-why did they d-do that?”
Tugger swipes at the side of his face, eyeing Misto for a moment before he says, “You were bleeding.”
Misto frowns. He’s not surprised his ear had bled a little; he’s noticed bits of blood here and there recently. But his ears are black and it was never enough blood to be really noticeable, so he doesn’t think Munk knew he was bleeding. He didn’t say as much at least. Though he certainly knows now, since Gus looked at his ear.
“How w-would Munk know th-that?” Misto asks.
Tugger frowns at Misto a bit more, then says, “I told him.”
“What?” Misto immediately squawks at a much louder volume than he’d intended.
Tugger just shrugs in response. As if there’s nothing to say on the subject.
And Misto–
Misto–
He’s been trying so hard not to be wrong this whole time. He’d tried to hide it, and then he’d tried to minimize it, and he’s been here for weeks now and he’s spent that whole time terrified of what may happen if they figured out that he’s too wrong.
So we sent him away, Munk’s voice drifts through his head again, and Misto scrunches his eyes shut, fighting the burning feeling that’s trying to ooze its way up his throat. This very well could be the breaking point that gets Misto kicked out forever, leaving him alone on the streets that his mother once protected him from, and Tugger told on him?
Misto’d never had a friend before he met Tugger, and while he’s sometimes annoying and oftentimes too loud, Misto had been growing to enjoy the feeling. Of having someone on his side. Of having someone he didn’t need to be frightened of.
Apparently that was stupid of him.
“You… told him?” Misto can only echo, tears welling up in his already damp eyes.
“You bled on me,” Tugger says, still frowning. “Something hurt you.”
“Nothing hurt me!” Misto snaps back, sharp edges bearing down on his burning insides. “I c-could get in trouble f-for this, Tugger!”
“You’re not going to get in trouble for being hurt, Misto.”
He says that like it should be obvious. But what does Tugger know. Tugger with his gentle older brother and his kind-eyed father and whole tribe of cats that let him get away with whatever trespass he wants. Who have always supported him. But Misto’s mother is gone forever, and his sister is a little baby that can’t speak up in his defense at all. If the junkyard decides that they’re sick of him or that he’s too wrong or that he crossed a line– then that’s it for him.
If Tugger had any idea what it’s like to be scared, he wouldn’t have done this.
Or maybe he does know. Maybe he does know and just doesn’t care.
“No one gets in trouble for being hurt,” Tugger informs him with a noise almost like a sigh when Misto sucks in a damp breath, and Misto swipes at his face, scowling at his ‘friend’ fiercely. “You don’t have to cry. Come on, let’s play something.”
“No!” Misto snaps. “I’m not going to do anything w-with you!”
He spent his whole life not having friends. He’ll be fine on his own now. And if this does end up being the final straw… well, he won’t be around Tugger ever again anyways.
“Misto–” Tugger starts, though his voice pitches up when Misto turns to march away. He’ll go sit by his sleeping sister, he figures. He may have to wake her up to say goodbye. Hopefully they’ll let her stay if they kick him out. “Misto!”
He doesn’t even take a step before Tugger grabs his arm; Misto whirls around with a hiss rattling up from his throat, and Tugger jerks back a bit, eyes wide. He doesn’t let go of Misto’s arm though, even when Misto tries to wrench himself free.
“Let go of me!” Misto yells, yanking against Tugger’s grip again.
“I don’t get why you’re mad!”
“Let go!”
“But I didn’t–"
Misto turns his head when he catches movement from the corner of his eye; Munk and Skimble are ducking back into the kittens’ den clearing, frowning at each other as Skimble says something. For once, Misto doesn’t care what they’re saying.
He makes one last attempt to yank his arm away as he turns towards the adults, and then before he can think better of it, wails, “Tugger hurt me!”
Both toms stop in their tracks. “Tugger!” Munk snaps with more venom than Misto’d been expecting, and Skimble crosses over the couple steps to grab their arms and yank them apart without a sound.
“But I–” Tugger starts.
“I don’t want to hear a word out of you,” Skimble cuts over Tugger with a harshness Misto hasn’t heard from him before, releasing them both. Munk comes over and scoops Misto up under the arms the second Skimble lets him go.
“Now of all times, Tugger,” Munk scoffs at his brother, hefting Misto onto his hip.
Tugger’s brows are pinched together. “But I didn’t–!”
“Not a word!” Skimble cuts him off again, and Misto’s view of Tugger is cut off when Munk turns, hauling Misto with him as he strides through the kittens’ den entrance once more.
Misto sniffs again, lifting his chin as they turn onto the path. But Tugger is gone and Munk’s footsteps are quick as he trots off, leaving them alone on the quiet path.
The hotness in his face and the pointy shards in his throat and belly both leave Misto quickly. He had felt like he was going to be angry for the rest of his life when he was talking to Tugger just a moment ago, but the breeze whistling down the path chases it all away with barely a sound and no fight at all, leaving Misto alone with his fear and the guilt creeping in under his fur.
It’s not Tugger’s fault, that he doesn’t know what it’s like to be scared and wrong. He was just trying to help. And Misto got him in trouble for it. Dragged his friend down with him for no reason.
Misto swipes at his teary face, tucking his chin down so he can rest his cheek within the crook of Munk’s neck. The scent of him is familiar now, but isn’t enough to ward off the fear Misto’s been harboring all these weeks. He doesn’t know where Munk is taking him. Hopefully not the edge of the junkyard to be tossed into a ditch or something.
But no, Misto discovers after braving a peek at the path; he knows this way. They’re headed to Munk’s den.
That at least, is a relief. If Munk were getting rid of him, Misto doesn’t think they’d go to his den first. They went to Munk’s den after the lightning thing, so the ear thing is probably going to be like that, then.
Tolerated.
So far.
For some reason. Misto thought he didn’t get in trouble for the lightning thing because he didn’t hurt anybody–
Misto stays quiet as Munk scales the pile that leads up to his den, winding around the old grandfather clock that no longer ticks without speaking a word. Misto doesn’t really want to, but he releases his grip around Munk’s shoulders when Munk makes like he’s going to set him down within the dark interior. The scrap metal underneath Misto’s toes is cold as Munk plops him down and then immediately sits before Misto, hands curling around his wrists.
“Tugger didn’t scratch you or anything, did he?” he prompts, twisting Misto’s arms in his grasp to look them over.
Misto sniffs, glancing sideways in guilt before he confirms, “No.”
Munk spends another moment looking over Misto’s arms, like he doesn’t believe him. Then he releases Misto’s wrists and looks up to his face, brows pinched together. He opens his mouth, but it takes him a long minute to start speaking.
“Misto, can you be honest with me?”
Misto sniffs again, swiping at his face. “Um. Yes.”
“What happened to your ear?”
Nerves begin to settle again. He can’t lie. But he remembers what Munk said about Macavity. So we sent him away.
Misto swipes at his face again as tears begin to blur his vision. “Am I in tr-trouble?”
“No, Misto; the only cat who’s in trouble is the one who hurt you.”
And Misto can’t help his following sob in response to that, though he tries to keep the sound within his throat. He uses his palm to smear away the first tear that slides down his cheek, hot and unwelcome.
“Misto?” Munk prompts at Misto’s reaction.
“I don’t–” Misto starts with a gasp. “I didn’t–”
“It’s alright, Misto,” Munk says, though it obviously isn’t. “You don’t have to be scared. Who did that to you? One of the other kittens?”
Misto can only find the composure to shake his head, eyes scrunched shut in dread.
Munk pauses for a moment. “Was it one of the colony cats?”
Misto shakes his head again.
“Misto,” Munk says, then leans forward to place his hands on either side of Misto’s middle while Misto struggles with his tears and his shame and the tightening dread working its way up his throat. He has to be brave. He has to. “It’s okay; you’re not in trouble. Who did it?”
Misto strangles another sob in his throat, and with his eyes still shut tight, taps his knuckles against his chest.
“You…?” Munk prompts right away, like he wants Misto to continue. But there’s nothing else to say. Misto sniffs again, reaching up to swipe at his face while Munk remains silent. “You…” he voices again after a moment Misto spends trying to stop his shoulders from shaking, voice creased in thought this time. Misto cracks his eyes open just in time to blurrily watch realization fall upon his face. “You did it.”
Misto swipes at his cheek, scrunching his eyes shut again as the tears take him.
“You did it?” Munk says again, and Misto can hear him shuffle as he settles up onto his knees, not releasing him. “Misto, why would you do that to yourself?”
“I didn’t mean to!” Misto wails, losing his composure entirely.
He remembers what Munk said about Macavity. Maybe the lightning thing was fine, and maybe the pillbug thing was fine, but this time he’s definitely hurt someone; he’s so scared that he thinks he may throw up as the sobs wrench their way up his throat one at a time, hiccupping with the force of it as he reaches to grab his own shoulders, squeezing hard.
“I didn’t– I didn’t– I’m s-s-sorry–”
“Misto, Misto,” Munk says with more urgency than gentleness. “It’s–” His hands come up to frame either side of Misto’s jaw as he continues to shake with terrified tears, composure lost to the wind. “You– you need to breathe with me, okay?”
“I’m sor– I’m sor–”
“You don’t need to apologize, Misto. Just breathe. Deep breath. Can you do that? With me?”
Misto tries to take a deep breath when Munk does, but his gasping tears interrupt his efforts, and he only gets halfway through inhaling before he breaks down into sobs again. Munk tells him to try again though, and again, and again, until Misto is stuttering his way through little panting breaths as tears slide more mildly down his face, wetting the fur on Munk’s hands.
“I’m sorry,” Misto squeezes out when he has the breath to do so, but Munk shakes his head, eyes wide, in response, so Misto just shuts up after that and breathes.
He’s not sure how long it takes, but it feels like an eternity before Munk releases Misto’s face and leans in to scoop him up under the arms, hauling Misto up and into his lap. Misto sniffs and hooks his chin over Munk’s fluffy shoulder, listening to the rapid beat of his heart pressed tight against Misto’s chest as he squeezes him.
He’s not sure if he should be relieved. But Munk’s scent is familiar and he’s warm all over, so Misto swipes his palm over the drying tears on his face and smears his cheek against Munk’s shoulder, now both frightened and exhausted.
“You don’t need to apologize,” Munk says after a long period during which Misto had only listened to the beat of his heart and the quiet repetition of his breathing. “But Misto… Why did you do that to yourself?”
“I didn’t mean to,” Misto peeps out quickly.
“You said that,” Munk agrees. “But–” He’s silent for a moment, and Misto can feel him take in a breath a while before he speaks. “Gus said it looked bad, Misto. I– was it itchy?”
“No.”
He’s quiet for another minute. “Then why did you keep scratching it?”
Misto sniffs. “I don’t… I don’t know. I just… I didn’t m-mean to hurt anyone.”
“Misto,” Munk says, and when he leans back Misto clings to him for another moment, not eager to face this conversation directly and not eager to abandon the familiar comfort of Munk’s shoulder. But he doesn’t want to be any more of a problem than he already is, so he releases Munk and swipes at his damp eyelashes again as Munk settles his hands on Misto’s sides. His gaze flickers over Misto’s face for what feels like an eternity, brows pinched together and mouth tilted to the side. “You didn’t hurt anyone,” he tells Misto after a moment. “You hurt yourself. That’s different.”
Misto glances sideways with nerves. He’s not sure what Munk means by that; Misto is someone, after all. And he’s been trying all these weeks to avoid scratching his ear, especially after it started to sting, but it’s hard to just not. Even his own best efforts hadn’t stopped him from causing pain. It’s wrong. Obviously. Other cats don’t do it.
“I’ve seen you scratching your ear, Misto,” Munk continues. “I hadn’t realized you were doing it this often, though. Why didn’t you stop when it started to hurt?”
“I can’t,” Misto admits, looking down at his paws before him. “I tr-tried. My hand just… goes.”
When Misto braves a peek up at Munk’s face, he’s frowning. “Is it itchy?” he asks again.
“No,” Misto stresses with some annoyance. “It’s just… It’s just my ear. And my hand.” He thinks for a minute, then adds, “It’s l-like when your tail twitches when you’re m-mad. It just does it by itself. You can hold it down with a p-paw, but th-that doesn’t stop it all the way.”
“Do you scratch your ear when you’re mad, Misto?”
“No,” Misto insists again.
“When does it happen, then?”
Misto shrugs, looking back down at his paws.
“You scratched it earlier when I asked if you were bitten by something,” Munk figures after a bit. “Do you do it when you’re embarrassed?”
“S-sometimes,” Misto mutters.
“When else do you do it?”
“I dunno.”
“What about when you’re nervous?”
“I guess.”
With a sigh, Munk leans back and watches Misto for a really long time. Or at least it feels like a really long time; Misto keeps his eyes on his paws, shoulders drawn up and face hot.
“Misto, why didn’t you tell me that your ear was hurting when it first started?”
“It didn’t hurt that bad then.”
“What about when you started bleeding? This couldn’t have been the first time you noticed the blood; Gus said it looked like you’d reopened the healing cuts several times over.”
Misto sniffs again. “I’m sorry.”
“I told you Misto, you don’t need to apologize. I just want to find a way to make sure this won’t happen again.” Misto’s tail twitches a little at that, in meager hope he’s not sure if he’s brave enough to feel. Maybe he’s not getting kicked out, then. “How long has it been bothering you?”
Misto swipes at his face again. “Not sure.”
“Has this happened before? Back with your mother?”
“No.” He sniffs again, and shakily says, “I don’t want to h-hurt anyone.”
Munk smiles at him. “I know you don’t, buddy. I just–”
He’s silent for a long time after that. Misto peeks up at him, watching his ears twitch as he frowns at nothing. The silence is both strange and nerve-wracking. Munk doesn’t usually struggle when saying things; he’s very good at saying things, usually.
But while Misto is simmering in his fear and nerves, Munk eventually says, “I know this has been hard for you, Misto. You’ve… had trouble adjusting.”
Misto wilts a little at the resigned lilt to Munk’s voice. He knew perfectly well that he wasn’t hiding his wrongness well enough, but to hear it said so frankly makes his ears flatten, and even that stings in jeering reminder.
“I’ve been trying,” Misto tells him smally.
Munk smiles, though it’s not the right kind of smile. “You shouldn’t have to ‘try’, Misto.” And that makes him cast his gaze down to his feet again. With a great sigh, Munk adds, “I’ve wanted to help, but I’m not sure how.”
Misto swallows the lump in his throat. He was probably right not to get his hopes up, because this may be it. I wanted to help but you’re just too wrong by far, so we’ll have to get rid of you. He sniffs, trying to summon whatever is left of his bravery for what comes next.
“But I’m…” Munk pauses again. “Well. I’m lacking, clearly.”
And Misto frowns. Maybe ‘lacking’ means something else he doesn’t know about, but he thought that word meant missing something. And Munk isn’t missing anything. He’s not the wrong one here.
“I don’t want to make things worse or harder for you, Misto. But I don’t want to leave you to struggle on your own, either. I…” And then he pauses again, a furrow between his brows. After a time, he seems to come to some decision, and scooches a bit closer to Misto, that sort-of smile on his face. “Misto,” he says, returning his paws to Misto’s middle. “Can you tell me what happened the other night?” The other night, Misto opens his mouth to echo, but Munk continues before he can speak. “When you made the lightning?”
Misto flinches a bit at mention of the lightning, but Munk doesn’t release him. “Um.”
“You’re not in trouble,” Munk tells him. “I’d wanted to ask you the night it happened, but I didn’t… want to push you. I’d decided I’d wait for you to bring it up, though I had a feeling you were too frightened to. And it’s not fair to you, for me to put off an important conversation just because I’m nervous to have it.”
Nervous, Misto thinks with surprise at first. He didn’t know Munk got nervous, since he’s an adult and all. Though he quickly realizes what Munk means, and blurts out, “I’m not going to do it again.”
Munk’s smile ticks up a little. “I didn’t think you would, Misto. I just… I don’t want you to feel like you’re being singled out, or… or interrogated. But Tugger and Jenny only told me a little of what happened that night, and I’d like to hear it from you.”
Misto sniffs again, idly swiping at his damp face. The least he could do is give Munk the answers he’s looking for. “Um. Tugger and I were p-playing. And I realized I have… um… those things that humans use to wrap their newspapers with…”
Munk frowns at Misto for a moment, then he supplies, “A rubber band?”
“Yes.” Misto scratches at the back of one of his paws. “I realized I have a rubber band inside of me. And when I p-pluck it, I make sp-sparkles.” He sniffs again. “And when I p-pluck it really hard, I make lightning.”
Munk is quiet at first. “Can you show me? Not the lightning, the sparkles.”
Misto sniffs again, but he obediently steps backwards out of Munk’s reach and closes his eyes, searching for the bubbly feeling he’d had that night. It’s hard to find for a moment; back then it had come easily enough he’d barely been aware he was doing it, but tonight Misto has to search for that rubber band, buried deep somewhere within him. He doesn’t know why it came so easily then, or why it seems so hard now.
But either way he does eventually find that rubber band strung tight between his insides, and lifts his hands to show Munk as he pulls it back and releases it, as gently as he possibly can. Even so Munk still flinches back at the sudden burst of glittering sparkles that erupt soundlessly from Misto’s paws, so Misto quickly takes another step back and tucks his hands behind his back.
“I’m sor–”
“It’s fine, Misto,” Munk quickly cuts him off, smiling again. “That just startled me. Can you do it again?”
He can, though he doesn’t much want to. Either way, Misto lifts his paws again and plucks that rubber band; Munk only blinks when sparkles erupt a second time, and he lifts a paw to poke one of them as they flutter to the ground.
“This is the same thing as lightning?” Munk asks as the last sparkle fizzes out at their feet.
“I guess,” Misto says.
“They’re not hot. I would’ve expected them to be, as bright as they are.”
“It doesn’t hurt anyone,” Misto reminds him quickly, and Munk lifts his chin to smile at Misto.
“I know, buddy. Just…” He smiles down at their feet again, then lifts his gaze up to Misto’s. “Try not to aim that at anyone’s eyes, alright? It’s kind of bright.”
Misto tucks both of his hands behind his back again. “Okay!”
“It’s fine, Misto,” Munk tells him. “Really. I know you didn’t mean to do it, and no one was hurt. Now you know how it works; everyone has to learn their limits.”
Misto nods, lips pressed together.
“And your ear…” Munk’s ears twitch out again. “It’s alright. We’ll figure it out, okay?”
He has that weird not-smile on his face again.
The lightning thing didn’t happen that long ago, and he still remembers the short conversation he and Munk had had when Misto was hiding in the crates.
“Misto, you’re not ‘wrong’. There’s nothing wrong with you.”
That had been a lie. Misto could tell.
When he first came here, Misto thought he could hide his wrongness. Keep it bottled up, away from other cats. And when that turned out to be a bust he thought maybe he could make up for his wrongness, be good enough that it didn’t matter. But now he’s failed pretty spectacularly at that, but Munk’s not mad at him.
He… thinks he gets it now. Munk had even told him, weeks ago at that one park he’d taken Misto and Tugger to visit. I love you, and I love your sister. Misto hadn’t been sure what to make of the remark at the time, but it’s clear to him now, after all of this trouble. Munk isn’t his mother, but he loves Misto like his mother did.
So that means he has to put up with it.
It’s partially relief that twists up a knot in Misto’s throat, but only partially. It’s nice to know that he’s safe, he supposes, but that certainty comes bundled with another realization: Misto is safe here, but he’s also a burden. A burden taken willingly, but a burden nonetheless.
Munk doesn’t speak for a while. But then he leverages up onto one knee, resting a hand atop Misto’s head, on the side away from his hurt ear.
“I’ll go get you your snack, Misto,” he says quietly as he stands. “Try to sleep, okay?”
Notes:
There's a little bit of this chapter I wanted to change for the longest while, but I didn't end up getting around to it in time. I haven't decided if I'm going to cut my losses and just leave it as it is now forever, or if I'll come back and edit this chapter later down the line. Either way, if I do decide to change this chapter in the future in any way, I'll make a note of it here.
Chapter 14
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
It’d be fastest to head straight for the dumpsters to pick up that snack for Misto, but Munk finds his pawsteps leading towards the other end of the junkyard after he leaves Misto in his den.
He’s taking the long route, he tells himself as he treads down the path, gaze on the ground and brow furrowed in thought.
He had hoped… Well, he hadn’t hoped that someone had hurt Misto, but he had hoped for a simple answer. Something that could be cleared up with a single conversation. Maybe two if he were unlucky.
But–
He doesn’t understand how a cat could do that to themselves. He hadn’t even wanted to look at the wound; he doesn’t think he’d be able to stomach it. Injuries aren’t new to him, but the self-inflicted nature of the damage makes his skin crawl in a way that he’s not sure if he successfully hid from Misto.
He passes by the path that leads to the milk bar on his meandering way towards the dumpsters, but he slows near the west-side entrance when he hears voices up ahead. It’s not a busy night, so Jelly’s voice rings clear down the path.
“–just think we need to do something.”
“I don’t disagree,” comes Gus’s voice in response, and Munk steps to the side near the milk bar entrance, leaning his temple against a nearby sheet of metal as he listens.
“But you do disagree,” Skimble nearly cuts him off. “Can see it on your face.”
Munk barely catches Gus’s following sigh with his ears pricked; the three of them must’ve convened here after Munk took Misto off. “I know you wanna swoop in and be the hero, Skimble, but–”
“The boy needs help. Isn’t that clear?”
“Of course it is. But you remember what Deuteronomy’s been saying,” Gus reminds him patiently. “Straps needs to learn to lead. We can’t jump in and fix things for him without him asking us to. He needs to learn to ask.”
“But he’s struggling.”
“That’s what learning is,” Gus says. “Struggling.” He’s quiet for a moment, then adds, “Some pains can’t be avoided, kid. He needs to learn to lead, and he needs to do it sooner rather than later, while he still has old timers around to step in and lend a paw when things get dicey.”
“How is this not ‘dicey’?” Skimble retorts, then prompts, “Jelly?”
“I don’t want to argue,” Jelly says right away. “But I’m worried about Munk, and I’m worried about Misto. We have so many kittens here for the season, and we’re clearly not keeping up with his needs.”
“Exactly,” Skimble agrees.
“But,” Jelly continues, “I think Gus is right. Munk has much to learn and not much time. If things were different...” She sighs, and is quiet for a moment. “He needs to learn. Deuteronomy told us to avoid stepping in unless we’re asked.” She sounds fond when she adds, “And you've already stepped up quite a bit Skimble.”
“He needs the help!” Skimble defends himself mildly.
“Of course he does. I'm not saying I'm disagreeing.”
“It’s Munkustrap’s decision,” Gus points out. “That's all I'm telling you kids. You need to step back and let him decide, even if you don’t like the outcome.”
After a few dozen seconds of silence Munk deduces that there’s nothing left here for him to overhear, and he pushes up and away from his lounging spot, suddenly feeling twice as tired as before.
He’d known perfectly well that his authority had been more symbolic than earned, of course. He knows perfectly well that he’s young, and that if efficient and experienced leadership was the only thing the tribe was looking for, Deuteronomy would still be running the night-to-night. But there’s a legacy at hand here. Shoes Munkustrap must grow to fill. And Gus was right; learning means struggling.
It never really seemed that way, back when Munk would watch Macavity do the learning. But Munkustrap isn’t Macavity.
With heavy paws, Munkustrap trots down the last few steps of the path and ducks into the clearing. He only lifts his gaze from his feet a few steps past the entrance, and looks up just in time to meet Gus’s gaze as he idly turns his head.
“Straps,” Gus says when he spots Munk crossing over, Jelly at his side and Skimble standing a couple paces off by the ‘bar’.
“How is he?” Jelly cuts over him, setting a hand on Gus’s shoulder as Skimble turns around.
“Calmer now. I talked to him some.” Munk explains as he closes the distance between himself and their little huddle. “He said… he hadn't meant to do all that to his ear. Said he can’t help it, his hands just move on their own when he's… nervous, I guess.” He slows to a stop before them, aware that his tone is dull and unable to help it. “Magic or… something else.”
“Kid's got more than one self-destruct button taped to his paws, I'll give him that,” Gus says as he rolls a shoulder. “Wonder if that’s just magical cats. I remember Macavity used to rip out clumps of his mane before he weaned.”
Munk looks up at him, frowning. He’d never heard that one before. “Really?”
“Yeah. He grew out of it.” Gus glances over at Jelly, then aims a crooked smile at Munk. “Hopefully the little one will too.”
“I… don’t know what to do about the scratches,” Munk admits after an awkward moment. “I thought Jelly might look at them, but I don’t know if that’ll upset him.”
Jelly makes a tight-lipped expression. “I’ll take a look, Munk, if you want me to. But from what Gus said, it sounds like this is outside the league of any cat.”
Munk tries not to let his following sigh sound like air escaping a balloon, but he’s not sure if he succeeds. He steps back and settles down on a nearby chest, arms braced atop his knees. “I have to find a human to take care of his scratches,” he concludes, more to himself than his audience.
“Probably,” Jelly unhelpfully agrees.
He rubs his forehead with a paw. “When I took him to mine, he was too scared to even go near her.” He drops his head to rest against the meat of his hand, frustration crawling under his shoulders and within his stomach. “I know he’s not trying to be a bother,” he admits as his voice starts to pitch up. “But I take my eyes off of him for a quarter hour and there’s lightning in the clearing, or-or-or he’s hurting himself again…”
He’s just terrified for the little guy. He wants to help, he does, but he just doesn’t know what to do anymore. There have been three incidents with Misto now, not even over the course of two weeks, and who knows how long he was brutalizing his ear until someone noticed. Who knows how long he’d keep doing it if Tugger hadn’t! Misto just needs to be watched closer, but Munk can’t keep an eye on him for every single moment of every single night. He couldn’t do that before heat season began, and he certainly can’t now.
Skimble’s feet cross into Munk’s line of sight right before he speaks. “We were just talking about that, Munk. And well, it’s only a suggestion, but… I could try taking him for a bit if that would help.”
Munk frowns at the concrete before him, blinking the tight heat from his eyes before he lifts his gaze to squint up at the railway cat. “You?”
“Of course!” Skimble says with a smile. “I know he doesn’t like humans much, but there are plenty of places on the train a cat can go where the humans don’t linger. I could keep an eye on him when I’m not carrying out my duties.”
Munk’s never been on Skimble’s train. He’s not sure if anyone other than Skimble has. It just never seemed like a place a cat could just casually visit. “You’ll take him on the train?”
“Yes, Munk, that’s what I said,” Skimble reminds him with some amusement.
“But you have so many responsibilities there.”
“I’ll have time for the lad,” Skimble assures him. “It might be good for him, you know. Away from other kittens, seeing a bit of the world… And my station master’s daughters are small; can’t imagine he would be as frightened of them as he would a grown human, and they could take a look at his ear easy as anything.”
“It would be eleven nights, right?” Jelly prompts.
“Just eleven nights,” Skimble confirms with enthusiasm. “If the boy doesn’t like it, then I’ll bring him back when the eleven nights are over, and we can look into something else.”
Gus makes a noise in his throat. “Give him the ‘but’.”
Munk looks between them when Skimble sends Gus a look, then smiles at Munk. “We’re heading off for another round at dawn,” he explains. “So if you want my humans to look at his ear, we’ll have to leave tonight.”
Munk sits there in silence for a moment, weighing the idea over. It would be nice if this were exactly what Misto needed, some space from the other kittens and one-on-one time with a grown cat who can keep an eye on him. But there’ll be plenty of humans on the train, and Misto doesn’t know their kind very well. Hell, he barely knows Skimble. Munk doesn’t know if Misto would acclimate to the train– he certainly hasn’t acclimated particularly well to the junkyard, and it’s been weeks upon weeks now.
Jelly speaks up while he’s mulling it over. “I think it’s a good idea. Jenny and Augustus are already out of commission for the week, and I might be in the same situation soon, so you’ll have less help than usual. If he doesn’t like it, it’s just eleven nights, and then he’ll be back home. At least by then Jenny’s heat will be over.”
If he doesn’t like it, it’s just eleven nights is a very easy thing to say, but everyone present here knows what Misto does to himself when he’s uncomfortable. The worst-case scenario isn’t ‘he’ll be bored for a few nights’.
Munk sighs, rolling a shoulder as he sits up and crosses his arms. “It’d be one thing if this was next week. At least then I’d have time to introduce the idea to him. But this is very short notice; I don’t know if he’ll take it well.” He pauses. “But I don’t know how else I’ll get a human to look at his ear. It might get infected if we don’t do anything.”
“It’s your choice, Straps,” Gus tells him patiently.
“I… don’t know,” Munk forces out. “I don’t know if I’m doing what’s best for him.”
“Can’t ever know that, kid.”
Right. He sighs between his teeth, lifting his gaze briefly up to the moon to check its progress through the sky. “I’ll have to talk to him. Maybe he’ll refuse the second I bring up the idea.” That might actually be nice; that way Munk wouldn’t have to live with being the one to make the decision.
But for now…
He sighs and goes to push to his feet. “I have to get Misto his snack.”
But, “I can do that,” Jelly assures him gently, stepping over to place a hand on Munk’s shoulder before he can stand. And then less gently, she adds, “Skimble, why don’t you come along?”
Potentially recognizing the hardness of her voice, Skimble makes no attempt to argue, and offers nothing in goodbye beyond a single concerned look at Munk over his shoulder as they interlock arms and head off.
Munk is left with Gus.
He kicks a pebble sitting near his foot, sending it skittering across the concrete as he re-crosses his arms. He means to let out a sigh, but it comes out as more a childish huff of frustration. “I’m no good at this.”
“You're doing fine.”
Munk scoffs at the instantaneous platitude, in no mood for kind words and a pat on the head. “Misto would not have gotten this bad if Deuteronomy were around like he was when I was small.”
“Can’t know that for sure,” Gus retorts, unmoving from his spot across from Munk. “And regardless, he’s not around. He chose you to take his place.”
Munk has to huff again. “Second choice.”
Gus snorts; either at the comment or at Munk’s dull tone. The old man always did get a laugh out of his turmoil. “Regardless of how Misto would be doing if Deuteronomy were around,” he prompts with a wry, humorless smile, “How well do you think he’d be doing under Macavity’s wing?”
Munk admittedly does shudder a bit; it’s kind of a grizzly thought. Misto’s abilities do range rather oddly close to Macavity’s, and even when Munk was younger, through the rose-colored lens of youth and admiration, he’d known perfectly well it was unenviable to be a recipient of Macavity’s fascination or jealousy. And that was before he’d known what his older brother was capable of.
“You’re doing fine,” Gus concludes when Munk doesn’t respond.
And that’s well and good and all. But ‘it could be worse’ is only so much of a consolation prize. There are plenty of parties in London that can and would be terrible for Misto. Munk wants to be more than the bare minimum.
“Do you think it’s a good idea to send Misto off with Skimble?” he prompts Gus, brows raised.
“Might be great for the kid. Might be a disaster. Won’t know until we try it.”
Of course that’s only slightly better than worthless. Munk understands perfectly well that something needs to be done here, and he understands just as clearly that they won’t know for sure what works until they try it. But Misto is far from pliable, and eleven nights is a long time to spend in terror.
Munk doesn’t think he and Gus are left waiting there for a particularly long time, Munk in contemplation and Gus probably thinking about his lunch or some other bloody nonsense. But after some period of time, Skimble and Jelly return with some jerky for him and a bit of sliced ham for Misto, which Munk scarfs down and rolls into a tube for easier transportation, respectively.
“Maybe you and I can talk to him together,” Munk says to Skimble, eyes on the tube of ham between his paws. It feels childish, but it would make him feel better to have another older cat with him for this. “You know, answer any questions he may have and move on from there.”
“Not a bad idea,” Skimble says. “Why don’t you grab the boy and bring him here?”
“Right,” Munk says.
Jelly steps up to his side and runs a hand over his head, pushing the fur falling over his forehead back. “It’s alright Munk,” she says, voice as soothing as the gentle touch of her hand. “If this doesn't work out, we’ll come up with something.”
“Right,” Munk squeezes out of his throat. “Thank you. Really.”
“You’re not alone. Not in any of this. It’s important you remember that, alright?” She tilts her head to smile down at him, eyes kind and voice patient. “Misto is all of our responsibility. If and when things go wrong with him, you don’t carry all of the blame yourself.”
Munk nods, unable to summon his voice, and her paw slides from his head.
~
So once again, Munk treads the path between the milk bar and his den, holding onto the ham tube with both hands. For a foolish moment, he considers grabbing Tugger and having him come along for this undoubtedly tricky conversation, but quickly remembers the argument he and Misto had had. Whatever it’d been about. Once this train business is settled, he’ll have to figure out what on earth his little brother was thinking back there. It’s like him to hassle Misto, but Munk would think that Tugger had to have been aware of the severity of the situation. He’s not going to press Misto for details now of all times, but Tugger will be on the receiving end of a conversation later, that’s for sure.
Another item on his to do list.
Misto is curled into a little ball when Munk returns; sleeping, he thinks at first, but the little guy lifts his head as Munk ducks through the entrance.
“I tried to sleep,” Misto admits with a guilty sort of tone that nearly makes Munk sigh.
“It’s alright, buddy,” Munk tells him. “Here, here’s your snack.”
Misto sits up and takes the offered ham tube with both paws, holding it up to his face to sniff before giving it the tiniest of licks that admittedly does make Munk’s mouth quirk up.
“I spoke to Skimble along the way,” Munk tells him while Misto takes his first bite. “He wanted to talk to you. Is it okay if we go talk to Skimble together? You’re not in trouble,” he’s sure to quickly tack on, though to his mild surprise Misto doesn’t look nervous at the idea.
“Yes, it’s okay,” Misto confirms before taking another bite, and Munk eyes him for a minute while he chews. Skimble had been a great help while he and Gus were trying to look at Misto’s ear, and it’s odd that he seems so comfortable around the railway cat already. Of course Munk imagines Skimble was probably born with his specific brand of charm, but Misto doesn’t know him well and hasn’t historically come around to strange cats quickly. He still seems to be frightened of Gus, although the encounter earlier tonight certainly didn’t help there.
Maybe Misto just took a liking to him. Who’s to say.
“Would you like to go now?” Munk prompts, and Misto only stands in response, stepping over to Munk with his piece of ham in his paws. Munk scoops him up around the middle and stands at the same time with a grunt.
“Am I heavy?” Misto asks as Munk steps out into the moonlight, and Munk smiles at him.
“No,” he informs the little kitten. A touch playfully, he adds, “Maybe it’s the ham that’s heavy.”
Eyes widening, Misto immediately takes a bite from his ham tube, as if that’ll affect how heavy it is, and Munk snorts in amusement, turning his gaze down to the steps that lead around his grandfather clock den.
Misto doesn’t eat quickly usually, but he’s finished with the ham tube by the time they arrive at the milk bar, where Skimble is waiting outside with his paws hooked into the pockets of his red trousers.
Unfortunately, Gus is also with him for some bloody reason, and Munk lifts a paw from Misto’s leg to swat in their direction, while Misto’s chin is still hooked over his shoulder. Skimble sees his gesture first, and removes a hand from his pocket to smack Gus in the shoulder and catch his attention. Gus idly turns with his brows raised, and when he sees Munk (and Misto) impending rather rapidly upon their lounging spot, he quickly turns and dives into a mess of ropes hanging off of the junk pile behind Skimble. Misto turns at the clanking sound of shifting junk, but by the time he twists around all the way, Skimble is standing still and alone, paws clasped together and smiling brightly.
“Little Misto!” he greets as they close the distance together. “Feeling better, then?”
“Uh huh,” Misto says, resting a paw on Munk’s shoulder when Munk stops before the railway cat. “Munk said you wanted to talk to me.”
Munk’s mouth quirks a bit again. Right to business, little Misto always is. “Well, Misto,” Skimble says as he settles down to sit, so Munk follows along and sets Misto down before kneeling on the concrete beside him. “You strike me as an adventurous sort; is that true?”
“Um,” Misto says. “No.”
“No?” Skimble prompts with a smile. “Never went on an adventure before?”
“My mother brought me here,” Misto figures, clasping his paws together. “Before that I was always at her den. Um. Munk t-takes me and Tugger on walks sometimes...”
“Ah, a little walk? Those can be fun, but they’re not true adventures. It sounds like you’re due for one, then.”
Misto sniffs. “I am?”
“Yes. See, I spend part of my days on a train. You’ve heard me perform.”
“Yes,” Misto confirms.
“And the thing about the train, see, is that there are quite a few humans on them, but no cats.”
“But you’re on the train,” Misto points out, and Skimble chuckles.
“Well, yes, there’s me,” he agrees. “But I’m the only one, most of the time. And I’ve been thinking to myself lately, ‘why, this train could do with another cat on it’. It’s a big train, see. Plenty of room on it; there are even places where the humans don’t go. And I can’t be everywhere all the time. I try, of course, but there’s so much train and so little Skimble to go around. And I thought to myself just the other night, ‘well, that Misto lad seems to have a head on his shoulders. Maybe he’d like to come along’.”
Misto is silent for so long that Munk’s shoulders start to slowly hike up. After what feels like an eternity of silence, he glances back at Munk with a furrow between his brows, then up at Skimble.
“You… think I should go on the train?” he eventually summarizes; slowly, like he’s not sure if he’s correct.
“I think you’d enjoy it,” Skimble tells him with a smile.
Misto is silent again. Then he twists to look at Munk, ears twitching out. “You think I should go on the train?”
Munk struggles for a split second. It’d be easier for me if you went on the train may be true, but he shouldn’t say it. I’m worried you won’t like it may also be true, but is equally inadvisable to voice. He doesn’t want to influence Misto’s decision here. Doesn’t want to push him one way or another.
So he tries to smile. “It sounds like an adventure.”
He instantly knows he said the wrong thing when Misto’s ears flatten entirely and he flinches a bit. Munk would retract it, but he doesn’t know what precisely he’d said wrong or how to fix it, and he just lifts his paws helplessly when Misto backs a couple paces away, turning his head this way and that to keep both Skimble and Munk in his line of sight.
“Misto, buddy,” he starts in helpless appeal, but Misto cuts him off.
“You lied.”
“I– I lied?” Munk prompts, brow furrowed as he tries to keep the smile on his face. “Misto, I wouldn’t–”
“I think you’ve got something wrong, little Misto–” Skimble starts lightly.
“I’m not stupid,” Misto grits out in a wobbling voice, lips peeled back in either a snarl or the beginning of a sob. Munk reaches for him immediately, half the impulse to comfort and half in fear. “You lied!”
“What did I lie about?” Munk appeals, and when he grabs Misto’s arm the little guy makes a spitting kitten-noise of anger with his ears flat against his head. Munk has to immediately tighten his grip when Misto thrashes his arm, leaning his weight back in his heels.
“Let go of me!”
“Misto, I didn’t–” Munk fumbles as Misto struggles, trying to reach for his other arm to pull him close. “I didn’t lie, what did I lie about–”
“You lied!” Misto snarls, tears already tracking down his face. “You said you loved me!”
“Misto–” Munk starts, but with that, Misto yanks on his arm one more time and then disappears.
Not in a shower of sparkles or a poof of smoke. Just gone.
Munk fumbles down to one forearm when his grip on Misto disappears so suddenly, leaving him half lying there with one paw outstretched and eyes wide.
“What–” Skimble says after a moment of horrific, bone curdling silence, voice barely a whisper. “Where did he go?”
Munk can only stare at the empty space before him, Misto’s furious little voice echoing in his head. You lied. You said you loved me.
Frantically, he works backwards through the conversation the three of them just had. He knows perfectly well that Misto tends to come to his own conclusions, but the little guy isn’t senseless; he just thinks in his own way. You think I should go on the train was clearly more of a loaded question than Munk’d realized, or maybe his answer was more loaded than he realized….? He doesn’t know. Tugger figured it out the last time Misto got the wrong impression from something Munk said, but Munk isn’t Tugger and he doesn’t know.
You said you loved me, whistles through his head again.
“Munk,” Skimble repeats, voice pitching up. “Where did he go?”
Munk pushes up to sit, looking one way down the path, then the other. No curled ears or wide yellow eyes await him. Last time Misto did this he had revealed himself to Munk immediately, only lingering in the nearby shadows long enough to make him panic. And he remembers the conversation they’d had, after.
My mother loves me.
You think I don’t?
“Munk?” Skimble prompts again.
You think I don’t?
“I don’t know,” Munk finally finds the composure to voice, though his words wobble. He swallows against the sharp lump growing in his throat. “I– I don’t know.”
“What do you mean you don’t know?” Skimble demands, voice pitching up to match Munk’s.
“I mean I don’t know!” Munk retorts with sharpness that does nothing to contend with the fear. He shuffles up to stand and Skimble joins him, but what does that do? Last time Misto revealed himself. Last time Misto only went a few pawsteps away. But Munk doesn’t know how far he can go, or how far he wanted to go just now. He doesn’t know if Misto will come back.
“Why did he disappear?” Skimble prompts. “What did he mean by that?”
“I don’t fucking know, Skimble!” Munk snarls, and turns towards Gus removing himself from the pile when he catches a glimpse of him from the corner of his eye. “Gus,” he appeals with upturned brows. He steps towards the elder cat in terror, desperate for any kind of guidance. Or reassurance. Anything. He’d take anything.
And what he gets is smacked upside the head.
“Shut up and listen,” Gus demands after retracting the paws he’d used to smack both Skimble and Munk at the same time, and Munk helplessly does just that with no clue why. He just pricks his ears and stares at Gus with all of the tight-lipped composure he can muster, listening to the silence.
And the lack thereof. He catches the sound after only a few seconds, barely traveling on the wind. Gasping, almost. Or crying, he realizes after a beat. Breathless, pitched kitten tears: a sound Munk never once thought he’d be relieved to hear.
Gus points over his shoulder with a finger, in the direction the faint sound is coming from. “He’s on the other side of the milk bar.”
Skimble plants a hand on Munk’s shoulder, ears pricked as well and gaze off towards the sky. “He’s… he’s heading north. That way.”
Munk turns his head in the direction Skimble had gestured. His den is the other way. Assuming Misto has any idea which way he’s going (he doesn’t know the junkyard well), Munk has no clue why he’d head that direction. The clearing is along that path, but there’s no way Misto would go there.
And then realization dawns in a wash of relief (and a bit of self-directed exasperation at the obviousness of it).
“He’s going to the kittens’ den,” Munk declares. “He’s going to find his sister.”
Skimble pats Munk’s shoulder and retracts his hand as he turns to head that way. “Good thought,” he says, but Munk’s barely listening and darts past Skimble before he can even properly start his jog.
“Munk!” Skimble calls after him, but Munk doesn’t slow down and takes the corner at a sprint. He’s thrilled to know Misto is okay and nearby, but Munk needs to talk to him.
He berates himself with every thundering pawstep across the concrete, ignoring passer-by cats he blazes past who call greetings and questions out to him. He should have just shot Skimble down. Shouldn’t have even brought up the train to Misto. Shouldn’t have brought it up now, shouldn’t have brought it up ever, shouldn’t have– he doesn’t even know. He doesn’t know what he said.
You said you loved me.
He smacks his hand against a piece of junk as he rounds the last corner to the kittens’ den, panting as he scurries the last few steps over to the den’s wide-open entrance. He’d been piqued about the door as of late, but now he’s nothing but grateful that there’s one less obstacle between him and Misto; he steps into the kittens’ den with more than the exertion of the run tightening his chest.
Kittens are scurrying to and fro, as per usual. Munk’s gaze flickers over the chittering and laughing masses, frantic and panting. No Misto. No Victoria, either. He doesn’t see her sitting or lying anywhere, though she’s probably napping at this hour–
On that thought, he looks to the inconspicuous bundle of napping little ones by the tarp extension of the broken-desk den. He spots Pouncival right away at the edge of the pile, and to his surprise: Victoria is right next to him. Unmistakable as white as she is, curled into a little ball and napping away.
He’d thought–
Munk’s chest heaves as he twists to look over his shoulder. Skimble is just coming around the bend, but there’s no Misto. He can’t imagine the little guy didn’t beat them here; he had a big advantage with how he’d blipped over the milk bar, big enough that his little skittering pawsteps couldn’t have slowed him down that much.
He turns back to the kittens’ den. If Misto didn’t come here for Victoria, then why did he come here? To hide? Maybe he’s in the broken-desk den.
And then Munk spots him. Off to the far side of the clearing, sobbing with his paws clutched to his chest. And Munk realizes then that Misto didn’t come here to hide, and he didn’t come here to find his sister.
He came here for Tugger.
Notes:
One more chapter left!
Chapter 15
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Misto’s hiccupping sobs echo back at him as he scurries quickly down the junkyard paths, paws thudding against the concrete and breath catching in his throat all over again.
Maybe Munkustrap trying to get rid of him wouldn’t hurt so badly if it had come a couple hours ago, back when Misto had felt so certain it was a possibility. But it happened right after Misto had stupidly concluded that Munkustrap wouldn’t do that to him; suddenly being a burden taken willingly doesn’t seem all that bad, certainly in comparison to being a burden tossed out like last night’s garbage.
And he had thought that at least –if Munk were to get rid of him– that he’d be honest with Misto from the start. Off you go, we just can’t take care of such a wrong kitten. But all of that business about the train and going on an adventure… He may be wrong, but he’s not so absurdly dumb that he can’t tell when adults aren’t saying something. Something important. Something shameful for every party present.
He doesn’t want to go out there. He’d been being brave about it earlier, but Misto doesn’t know how to hunt for food or how to find territory; he doesn’t think he’d be able to charm some human into taking care of him either. It would just be him alone on the dark streets of London, no mother or sister or anyone to take care of him…
Munkustrap wants him gone. The other adult cats surely feel the same way. His mother is gone. His sister is a baby. Misto has only one friend left in all the world who can help him, and he’d already betrayed Misto once by tattling on him. But even though Tugger is surely mad at Misto for lying to Munk and Skimble earlier about hurting him, Misto doesn’t know where else to go.
We don’t even need to go to the kittens’ den or the clearing to have fun, he remembers Tugger saying as he hurries towards the kittens’ den, breath catching and eyes streaming in misery. It can just be you and me, for forever.
Misto’s last hope in the world is that he meant that. He doesn’t know what Tugger can do to help him, and he doesn’t know how mad his friend will be at him. But he has faith in this at least, more than anything else: Tugger wouldn’t leave him alone.
Misto passes through the entrance to the kittens’ den, where the big metal door used to be. He’s been crying for so long that his eyes are blurry and his face is gross, but he finds Tugger right away, off to the side of the big clearing and sitting against the junk pile wall, arms crossed over his chest. Misto can’t even see his face, but he’d know his friend by his fluffy shoulders alone, and Misto scurries over to him, belly close to the ground and ears pinned back.
Tugger remains sitting there as Misto creeps over, though he must catch sight of him from the corner of his eye, because he lifts his head and then says, “Misto?” when he finds Misto hurrying his way over.
“Tug-gerrrrr,” Misto whines in his throat as he crosses the last few steps over to his friend and pushes to his feet. Tugger stands as well, just in time for Misto to grab him around the shoulders in a hug, desperate for– he doesn’t know. Warmth. Comfort. Anything that’ll make the forever-deep pit of fear in his belly close up, even just a little.
“Wh–” Tugger grunts when Misto grabs him. He’s still for a moment, fluffy and soft under Misto’s hands and face as he clings, still-sobbing. Then he lifts his paws and places them on Misto’s back, slowly. “What’s wrong?” he prompts after a short moment. “Where’s Munk?”
“He’s tr-tr-trying to get rid of m-me,” Misto gasps over Tugger’s shoulder, clinging tighter. “‘Cause I hurt m-my ear. I don’t know how to– how to live out in the c-city by m-myself, I’m so sc-scared I think I’m gonna throw up.”
Tugger is silent at first. Then he says, “I don’t think Munk would do that, Misto.”
And Misto is so outraged he has to pull back, retreating a step. “That’s what he s-said!” he appeals to his friend. “He said he was gonna put me on Sk-Sk-Skimble’s train and send me away!”
Tugger’s brows are pinched together. “Because your ear got hurt?”
“Be-because I’m too wrong, Tugger!” Misto exclaims at a near yell, pressing his paws to his chest. He looks over as he speaks and finds just then that Munk must have figured out where he was headed; he’s poking his head into the kittens’ den, scanning over the clearing with wide eyes.
Misto yelps in terror; he has no idea how Munk managed to follow him here, and he thought he’d have more time than this to make his case to Tugger. He ducks behind his friend, but Munk must’ve spotted him anyways, because Misto can see him making his way over from between the clumps of Tugger’s shoulder fluff.
“You’re not getting rid of Misto,” Tugger greets his brother as he comes over, unmoving from his spot before Misto. Though he sounds more like he’s asking a question than anything else.
“No, Tugger,” Munk responds with a scratchy voice, smiling as he kneels down before his brother. “Misto, you misunderstood,” he adds, leaning to the side as he speaks.
Misto watches him with distrust. His chest is heaving, like he ran the whole way here; Misto supposes that explains how he caught up so fast. And he shouldn’t like the smile on Munk’s face, because he’d been smiling when he told Misto about the train, but something about it seems different to Misto, in a way he can’t quite place. His inability to tell just what it is that may be wrong with Munk’s face and voice frustrates him; he can’t get his hopes up once more just to find out he was being lied to again. His heart will shrivel up like a flower.
Tugger will be able to tell if Munk is lying, though. Misto believes that.
“I’m not sending you away,” Munk continues all in one breath; several nearby kittens seem to have noticed Munk’s presence, and Misto watches a couple of them creep up in curiosity from over Tugger’s shoulder, ears still pinned back and throbbing.
“He said you’re puttin’ him on the train,” Tugger supplies, still frowning.
“Yes,” Munk says in another breath, and Misto continues to watch with raised brows. “Skimble offered to take him for a bit.” He leans to the side again, and adds, “But not for forever, Misto! It’s just for eleven nights. I’m sorry, I should have said that at the start.”
Misto frowns. Then he removes his one paw from Tugger’s shoulder in thought. He could tell there was something unsaid during that little ‘conversation’ with Skimble earlier. But was that it? It seems almost too fantastical to imagine. That Munk didn’t want to get rid of him. That him being wrong had nothing to do with any of it.
Misto pokes his head out from Tugger’s fluffy shoulder, frowning over at Munk. “I’m not lying,” Munk informs him when Misto makes himself known, still smiling at him and still breathing harshly. “I don’t want you gone. But you’ve had a hard time of it here, for a while now. Skimble and I thought you deserved a vacation. You’ll be back home before two weeks are up, I promise you.”
Alonzo is standing at Munk’s side now, along with a full group of kittens that are watching the conversation; Misto only briefly glances up when Skimble crosses through the kittens’ den entrance, stopping a pace within the clearing to plant a paw on the nearby pile and pant for a second.
“I’m sorry,” Munk continues. “I wasn't being clear with you. But I’m not ever going to send you away, and even if Skimble wanted to take you away for forever I wouldn’t let him.”
Misto is only given a couple seconds to process that. I’m not ever going to send you away. It really does seem too good to be true, but Tugger doesn’t seem to think he’s lying, and neither do any of these other kittens.
Speaking of other kittens. “Misto’s going with Skimble somewhere?” Alonzo prompts from Munk’s side.
“If he wants to,” Munk explains slowly, “Skimble offered to take Misto on the train for a trip to Glasgow and back.”
Misto startles at the immediate “WHAT?” shrieked by… someone in that group, and clutches his paws to his chest at the growing murmur that follows, disgruntled kitten meows filling the space. His ears twitch up, trying to catch fragments of the complaints that are getting tossed to and fro amongst the little huddle that’s formed.
He only catches fragments. ‘Why does he get to go’ and ‘Why can’t I come’ and ‘it’s not fair’ curl past his ears. He looks back and forth over the kittens in disbelief as the complaints continue. Several kittens have already pranced over to Skimble making his way over, voicing their objections to him.
He’d thought–
Well, he knows the train is special. Skimble has sung about it before. And it seems right that many cats don’t go there. But when Skimble had brought it up, Misto had thought Munk just wanted to be thoroughly rid of him as possible.
The possibility hadn’t even crossed his mind–
“But I’ve been good, I want–”
“–can go next at least, it’s only fair–”
–that he’d been given a reward.
He swipes at his face and steps out from behind Tugger, lifting his gaze to find Munk smiling warmly at him. “You’re not s-sending me away?”
“No, Misto,” Munk sighs, then scooches a little closer; Tugger appears to already be distracted by the chaos, or at least he seems pretty busy at the moment huffing at a she-kitten who’d pushed past him a bit, so Misto steps away from Tugger and up to Munk, lifting his chin to gaze up at him through dampened eyes. “Why would you think I was sending you away?”
Misto sniffs and swipes at his face. He’s been here in the junkyard for what’s beginning to feel like a long time. And he spent so long trying to be good and normal, but at this point he doesn’t see much of a point in hiding what Munk obviously has already figured out.
“I… know I’m wrong.”
“Misto,” Munk replies right away, “there’s nothing–” though he quiets very abruptly, meeting Misto’s silent gaze. “You’re different,” he amends quickly. “That’s all.”
Misto makes a noise in his throat. If that’s what he wants to call it, sure.
“I thought I w-was hiding it, at first,” he explains to his paws. “And then I thought I w-was making up for it. But then I realized that it just didn’t m-matter to you, that I’m wrong.” He sniffs. “Because you love me.”
“You’re right,” Munk informs him. “It doesn’t matter. Not to me or anyone else in the tribe.” Misto almost smiles; he’d been upset earlier at being a burden taken willingly, but after this scare, it doesn’t seem so bad anymore. In comparison to the alternative. “Misto, if you knew that, then– why did you think I was sending you away?”
“I’m not stupid,” Misto says, nearly a cough. “I knew you weren’t sayin’ s-something.”
“But why jump to me sending you away of all things?”
Misto glances up at a kitten who’s come over to complain at Munk; Munk grabs him by the scruff and turns him around without removing his gaze from Misto’s face, so Misto returns his own eyes to his paws. He fiddles with them for a moment while the complaining continues around them, then steps closer, lifting his tail to clasp it between his paws.
“You said,” Misto eventually voices at nearly a whisper, “Macavity got s-sent away because he hurt p-people.”
“Misto, Macavity got sent away because he chose to hurt people,” Munk says right away.
And as soon as those words leave his mouth Munk’s face does something strange. His brows push together, and his lips purse. Misto watches him as his jaw tenses, and his eyes go a little faraway, like he’s looking at Misto and not looking at Misto at the same time. Misto doesn’t know what that means.
And for the oddest split second there Misto thinks he hears something. Not the kitten-grumbling of the clearing, or the whoosh of the wind through the junk piles. But something else. Rain in his eyes and roaring in his ears. Someone’s sharp voice, and then Munk’s, chartreuse eyes cutting through the gloom.
Macavity, please!
Munk closes his eyes, and Misto is left with… whatever he just heard or felt as it fades away. Sometimes he hears or feels things that aren’t really there, but that had been strange even for him.
He’s distracted when Munk speaks again, in such a manner it’s like every word is being squeezed out of him. “It wasn’t an accident. It wasn’t a… mistake.” He clears his throat, a messy, wet sound, and takes a breath. “He hurt people because– because he liked hurting people.” His voice is smaller than Misto’s heard when he adds, “You’re nothing like him. Trust me. He was my brother, I… knew him.”
Misto’s not entirely sure what any of that means, but he does understand that Munk is hurting somehow. And comforting Misto is the thing that’s causing him pain, in some strange way that he can’t imagine he’ll ever understand. But Misto’s had bristles and thorns removed from his fur before, and he knows that sometimes things have to hurt either way. So he takes the last couple steps up to Munk, puts his paw on his thigh, and looks up at him to watch Munk open his eyes, slowly, like they hurt. Misto knows that feeling too; his own eyes sting a little from all the crying he’s done.
“You’re not getting sent away, not ever,” Munk tells him at a rasp. “It’s not something you have to be worried about, no matter how much you mess up. Okay?”
“Okay,” Misto agrees after a time. He retracts his paw to wrap it around his middle, hugging himself with both arms. For a moment there, they both sit in silence as the kittens continue to clamor around Skimble only a couple pawsteps away, but after a short time Munk clears his throat and claps his paws together before him.
“If you don’t want to go on the train, you don’t have to,” he tells Misto. “I’ll… be honest with you, buddy: I am worried you may not like it. But on the train, you don’t have to deal with the other kittens, or the colony cats, and Skimble will always be around if you’re hungry or lonely.” He smiles a little and adds, “You may like it! And if you don’t like it, you’re coming back here after eleven nights either way. I… hadn’t wanted to say any of this to you back there because I didn’t want to influence your decision. But clearly you deserve honesty.”
Misto has to resist the urge to grumble a little. He doesn’t know why saying it all plainly the first time was so hard; Munk said he didn’t want to influence Misto’s decision, but of course Misto’s decision would be influenced by having all of the relevant information to the matter at hand. Adults are so weird sometimes.
But he sniffs, truly mulling it over for the first time. Eleven nights is quite a long while, he supposes as he swipes at his damp face. A long while to be anywhere, but especially a strange place. But being away from the other kittens sounds very nice, and he does like Skimble even though he’s only spoken to him a couple times now. He makes the train sound like a magical place. Plus eleven nights is only a little longer than a heat, and Misto’s survived being away from his mother during hers, so he thinks he would be able to do it.
“Where does the food come from there?”
“Human food, mostly. Skimble can tell you more.”
“Oh, l-like the fish from your human’s den?”
“Yes, or the treats your uncle brought you. You’ll like it. And even if you don’t, there are rats there Skimble can fetch for you.”
Misto does like rats. “When would we go?”
“That’s the other big thing I didn’t mention to you: if you want to go, you and Skimble will have to leave tonight. Which is very short notice, I know.”
He’s right, that’s not a lot of time. Misto supposes he’ll have to think fast. “And I can stay away f-from the humans?”
“Yes,” Munk says slowly, then adds, “Skimble has two human kittens. They’re much smaller than regular humans, and gentler. He thought the two of them might look at your ear. Humans have things they put on wounds to make them hurt less and heal faster.” Misto must be making a face at this, because Munk adds, “You’d have to be a little brave. But Skimble will be right there with you; he’ll make sure it’s over with quick and easy.”
Well, Misto was already preparing himself to be brave enough to be thrown away, so he supposes this wouldn’t be so bad in comparison. He catches a glimpse of a little white pelt amongst the complaining kittens while he’s thinking, and that gives him some pause, too; he’ll have to leave Vicky behind for a few nights.
“And Vicky will be okay here without me?”
Munk smiles at him. “We’ll keep a close eye on her, Misto. Don’t worry.”
Misto finds, after that, that he doesn’t have any more questions. He also finds that he’s made a decision as well. “I… I think I can be brave for eleven nights.”
“If you don’t like it,” Munk tells him quickly, “You’ll never have to do it again. I promise. Okay?”
“Okay.” Misto sipes at his face again, then voices the last thought on his mind. “Can I– can I have a hug.”
Munk makes a little noise, like a snort, and then lifts his arms. “Yes, you can have a hug.”
Misto wastes no time in scurrying over and rests his cheek on Munk’s shoulder after Munk scoops him up. Once, his mother had done the same thing for him, scooped him up in a rush of warmth and softness so cozy he never wanted to leave. Munk isn’t quite as soft as his mother, and his shoulders are crisscrossed with bumpy marks under his fur, but he’s far fluffier and far warmer, and Misto supposes he should have felt silly for feeling anything but safe here.
Though he finds that he does have one last thought on his mind, about a different fluffy-shouldered cat. “I lied about Tugger hurting me,” he admits into the stripey fur on Munk’s shoulder.
Munk is silent for just long enough that Misto starts to grow nervous, but then he says, “Okay. I’m… glad you told me.”
Misto sniffs. “Is he still in trouble?”
“No Misto, he’s not in trouble anymore.”
He pulls away from Munk’s shoulder to look up at him. “I’m sorry I lied.”
“You should go tell him that, okay?” Munk encourages him with a smile, and Misto brings his paws together as Munk scoops him up under the arms and sets him down on the concrete. “Now let me help Skimble settle this riot down a little, alright? And then we’ll see about sending you two off.”
Misto nods up at him and watches him turn and wade into the crowd that Skimble stands at the center of. Misto eyes the chaos with a frown, swiping his face again. He’s not thrilled about going into that himself in search of Tugger, though he finds after a few seconds that Tugger is actually at the edge of the shuffle a few pawsteps away. And he’s already looking at Misto.
Guilt creeps up to Misto’s fur again, in a hot rush of shame that has him lifting his tail to clasp once more between his paws. After all of this, it turns out Tugger was right about everything. He wasn’t in trouble for getting hurt, and Munk wasn’t going to send him away, and Misto should’ve just let himself be looked at and then played ball with Tugger afterwards like his friend had suggested.
And after everything Misto put him through, he was still willing to stand before Misto and question his brother on Misto’s behalf.
Gaze off to the side, Misto creeps up to his maybe-friend, tailtip in his paws. “Tugger?”
Tugger sighs as Misto finally gathers the composure to peek up at his face. “You’re sad again.”
“I’m sorry I got you in trouble.” Misto looks between him and his white tail. “I told Munk that I lied.”
“You didn’t hafta tell him,” Tugger says, to Misto’s surprise. “I’m in trouble all the time; I’d rather me be in trouble than you be sad.”
Misto looks up at him again, eyes watering. “Really?”
“Yeah.”
He has a lot of feelings stuffed inside his throat; all Misto can squeeze out in response is, “Okay.”
Tugger sighs a little again, paws flopping at his side. “Are you done crying then?”
“I’m trying,” Misto peeps out with a big sniff.
“You shouldn’t be sad.”
“I’m not,” Misto says.
Because he’s not. He’s a little nervous and his outsides feel like they’re trying to squirm their way out of him, but he’s not sad, not anymore. He has a friend and he’s going to go on a train and Munk said that he’s not getting sent away no matter how wrong he is. His mom is gone forever but he still has his sister and Munk and Tugger and all of the other tribe cats, even scary old Gus, and no one is ever going to send him away. So he’s not sad.
“Well,” Tugger considers after a moment Misto spends trying to get normal again. “You can be sad that you’ll miss me, I guess.”
Misto giggles, and swipes at his face with a smile. He’s dumb. That’s a thought that should be voiced, though he looks up when a white kitten appears at his side from the huddle, big blue-yellow eyes peering up at him.
“Hi, Vicky,” Misto greets, then clears his throat. Pouncival and Tumblebrutus are right behind her, both watching with those shining kitten-gazes of theirs. “Did you, um, hear the news?”
“You’re goin’ somewhere?” Vicky asks, pushing up to two paws.
“Uh huh,” Misto says, swiping at his face one last time. He doesn’t want Vicky to be scared while he’s gone, so he’s sure to explain carefully, “I’m going on a train with Skimble. Just for eleven nights. Then I’ll be back here.” When she still looks unsure, he prompts, “Do you know how many eleven is?”
He watches her look down to consult her paws, ticking off fingers as she counts. Pouncival has to supply a hand so that she can get all the way there. “S’a lot of nights,” Pouncival says once they’ve got them all out, looking at their paws next to each other.
“The older cats will be able to tell you how many are left if you lose count,” Misto tells her, then frowns. Of course the older cats aren’t around constantly, so they won’t be always on hand. And he doesn’t think Vicky would be brave enough to ask an older kitten, even Alonzo or Tugger. Also who knows if Tugger knows how to count that high anyways.
“Here,” Misto decides after a moment’s thought. “Follow me.”
He plops down to four paws and leads Vicky over to a quieter corner of the kittens’ den clearing, near the broken-desk den where a few newly-weaned kittens are still slumbering. Not many, though. Misto discovers when he glances back that most of the kittens are still gathered around Munk and Skimble; he also finds along the way that Pouncival, Tumblebrutus, and even Tugger and Alonzo have followed him and Vicky over.
“Okay,” Misto says, sitting down and grabbing an errant stick of chalk.
He plasters one paw to the concrete and uses the chalk to trace an outline of it, then swaps paws and does the other one. Then he looks down at the two paws he’s drawn, glances at his two real paws, then swiftly plants his left paw on the ground again and traces that one next to his right-paw-tracing.
“Here, Vicky,” Misto tells his sister, quickly scribbling part of the third-paw-drawing in so that eleven fingers remain un-filled. “Every moonrise when you wake up, fill in one of the fingers. Like this, see?” He twists to check that she’s watching him scribble. “And when all three paws are colored in, that’s the night that I’ll be coming back.”
Vicky is staring down at the chalk drawing with pursed lips, so Misto looks up when Tumblebrutus asks, “What if it rains?”
“I can re-draw it if it rains,” Alonzo figures, and Tumblebrutus looks back at him, a little wide-eyed; Misto’s not sure if they ever spoke.
“Alonzo will help you,” Misto informs the trio. “And you can ask Munk or Jenny or Jelly anything when they come visit with food.”
“Uh huh,” Vicky says in a small voice.
“You’ll have to be a little brave,” Misto tells her. “But I’ll be back.”
“Are you leavin’ now?”
“Probably in a few minutes.” Misto sniffs a little at that thought, then peers around the kittens’ den. He remembers, all of a sudden, sitting in his mother’s den weeks ago now. He remembers her smiling at him, eyes scrunched up sleepily.
We have somewhere we need to go, Mistoffelees. You, me, and Victoria.
But we have to go now.
He never got to pack up any of his toys or blankets from their den to bring with him, that night. But there isn’t much of anything he’ll need to bring with him to the train now, he doesn’t think. He’ll be back home in eleven nights. He supposes all he needs to do before they leave is say goodbye to everyone.
He bows down to hook his arms under Vicky’s, squeezing her in a brief, fluffy hug. “It’ll be okay,” he tells her as she shifts to bonk their foreheads together. “You’ll barely miss me.”
“Nuh uh,” Victoria responds. “I’ll miss you lots.”
Misto laughs a bit and releases her. “I think you’ll be surprised. Just be sure to do your stretches, alright? Maybe you and Pouncival can do them together.”
“I like stretches,” Tumblebrutus says, scratching behind his ear.
“Maybe you and Pouncival and Tumblebrutus can do your stretches together,” Misto amends, then looks over at the call of his name. Munk is trotting over, and it seems like the kitten hoard over there is starting to break apart a little. Skimble is standing in the center, not talking to any kittens anymore, but instead looking at the funny round metal thing he always has in his pocket. And it looks like Gus had appeared at some point in the last few moments, though he’s huffing and puffing in the entranceway like he’d run halfway ‘round London on his way here.
“Skimble wants to head out soon,” Munk tells Misto as he crosses over, a smile on his face. “Are you all ready to go?”
“Can I come with him?” Tugger asks from behind Pouncival, to Misto’s surprise.
He twists around to eye his friend before Munk can reply. “You said you thought the train was dumb a bunch of times.”
Tugger flops his paws against his thighs. “I’ll be bored here by myself.”
“You won’t be by yourself,” Munk exasperates at him from over their heads. “And Skimble already told you no.”
Tugger huffs a single sigh, though he doesn’t argue.
Munk leans down to offer Misto a paw. “Come on, Misto, alright?”
“Okay.” Misto reaches up to take his paw, then twists to wave at the group of kittens with his free hand. “Bye.”
“Bye!” chirp both Tumblebrutus and Pouncival, and Alonzo waves a paw, but Vicky surprises him the most.
“Bye, Misto!”
Misto only has a second to blink at her in shock as Munk starts to lead him away.
She’s never called him that before.
“It’s not too late to change your mind,” Munk is sure to remind Misto as he leads the way towards the kittens’ den entrance.
Misto’s looking over his shoulder, but he turns around to walk straight at Munk’s side, peering up at him. “Uh huh.”
“Skimble’s feelings won’t be hurt if you don’t go.”
“Uh huh.”
Munk briefly eyes Gus huffing like a pollicle dog in the entranceway to the den, brows raised. “And there’s no shame in deciding something is a bit too scary–”
“Munk,” Misto cuts him off very seriously. “I’m trying to be brave here.”
Munk smiles down at him. “Sorry, buddy. I just know it’s been a long night for you. It’d be nice if Skimble were heading off tomorrow night.”
“But he’s not,” Misto replies, and like a summoning Skimble’s voice cuts over the murmuring behind them. ‘Unfortunately, it’s time for me to head out–’ briefly eclipsed by a chorus of little groans.
Munk stops him and Misto in the middle of the path, releasing his hand. He doesn’t want to fuss while Misto’s doing his best to be a champ about this, but he does clasp his paws together as he looks down at the little guy. The angle is just wrong for him to get a look at the mangled ear, but with Misto’s black fur he’d doubt that he’d see much even if the angle was right.
He takes a steadying breath, and smiles when Misto tilts his head back to meet his gaze. He’s not the only one here who’s had a long, emotional night, and some of the tightness in his chest eases a bit at Misto’s mild expression.
He’s young, Munk thinks. Maybe, despite all of the pain and the horrors and the ghosts that they once knew continuing to linger in the shadows like unwelcome guests… maybe he’ll bounce back.
“Alright, little Misto!” Skimble says as he rounds the corner, the bustling of kittens following a couple paces behind him (and now finally, mostly, silent). “Shall we head off?”
“I suppose,” Misto says.
“See you soon, kid,” Gus bids Skimble goodbye as he passes, and Skimble has to briefly stop to fend off the head ruffle that Gus attempts to foist upon him. Tugger pops up at Munk’s side while Skimble is defending his personal space, and prances the couple paces over to Misto without a word.
“Hi, Tug–” is as far as Misto gets before Tugger pops up to his paws, scoops Misto up around the middle, and heaves him off of his feet in a hug. Misto giggles, flailing all four of his paws for a brief moment before Tugger sets him down.
“See you,” Tugger tells him, plopping his hands back to his sides.
“Just in eleven nights,” Misto reminds him. “You can look at the drawing I made for Vicky if you’re not sure how–”
“I know how to count,” Tugger exasperates.
“Tugger, you’re dumb about so many things,” Misto sighs back at him. “How was I supposed to know that for sure.”
Munk snorts to himself while Skimble succeeds at escaping Gus and steps over to their little huddle. “Ready, Misto?” he prompts, holding out a paw.
Misto looks at his hand for a second there, and Munk is left briefly certain that he’s going to back out. But then he reaches up and places his paw within Skimble’s.
“Will you tell me more about the train?” Misto prompts Skimble. “On the way?”
Skimble smiles down at him. “Of course.”
And then Skimble turns to lead the way down the path, and off they go. Heart in his throat, Munk crosses his arms over his chest and watches the pair trot down the path together, paw in paw. They almost make it all the way to the bend before Misto looks over his shoulder. Munk smiles in encouragement, though the expression falls quickly off of his face when Misto squeezes his hand from Skimble’s and drops to his four paws, bounding over quickly.
He lost his nerve, Munk thinks with neither disappointment nor relief. He won’t go.
But he blinks in surprise when Misto stops before him and says nothing, just grabs Munk’s leg in a quick bone-squeezing hug.
“Thanks, Munk!” he chirps, and then he turns and scurries back over to Skimble, leaving Munk in absolute tatters and halfway certain he may cry himself, standing there as Gus comes up to his side.
“So,” he says as the pair resume their walk and disappear around the corner. “Not as big as an emergency as we thought, huh?”
Munk glances over at him in confusion, then belatedly realizes that Gus missed half of what happened here. “I forgot to tell Misto that it was only eleven nights, when Skimble and I spoke to him,” he explains. “That’s what I said wrong. Misto thought we were getting rid of him.”
“That’ll do it,” Gus grunts. The kittens around them begin to disperse after Misto and Skimble are gone, muttering to each other about games and naps and approaching mealtimes as they return to the kittens’ den.
“You know,” Munk voices quietly after staring at the spot they’d left, “I’ve been really baffled at Misto and Tugger for the longest time now, but I think I figured it out. Why Tugger gets on with him so well.”
Gus peers over at Munk. “What’s that.”
“He… just lost a brother, not too long ago, Tugger,” Munk figures with a roll of the shoulder. “A magical brother. It makes sense that he would… I don’t know, seek a replacement.”
Gus is silent for a moment, so Munk looks over at him and finds Gus is fixing him with a look.
“What?” Munk prompts.
“Tugger wants a replacement for the brother he lost?”
“Uh… yes,” Munk confirms. “That’s what I just said.” Maybe his hearing is starting to go.
Gus sighs up at the moon above their heads, then turns and waves a hand in Munk’s direction in goodbye, though Munk swears he mutters something about “making these kittens denser all the time,” as he goes.
“Alright!” Gus tells the dispersing kitten hoard at their feet. “I believe I was telling a story earlier, does that sound familiar to you lot?”
Several kittens chirp in excitement, chattering up at Gus as he leads the way over to the makeshift seat (and mess) he’d made earlier, groaning up at him when he tells them he can’t remember where he left off.
One kitten, however, doesn’t seem interested in any of the proceedings. Munk looks down at Tugger standing only a couple paces away from him, eyeing the kittens’ den with a frown.
Tugger turns, and seeing Munk is watching him, says, “Well now who am I supposed to play with?”
Munk has to snort. “One of the other kittens?” he suggests. “Alonzo? You could introduce yourself to Pouncival and Tumblebrutus?”
In response Tugger only eyes him like he’s a fool. With a world-weary sigh, he kicks at the concrete, and in the upmost kitten-seriousness, says, “I’m just gonna take a nap. I’ve had a long night.”
Tugger doesn’t stick around to endure the laugh that Munk is only sort of trying to keep in his chest, and trots off within the kittens’ den on his lonesome.
He’ll be alright. Hell, maybe he’ll learn how to make another friend, now that he knows the song and dance from Misto.
Left to his own devices, standing there in the now-empty path, Munk rolls his shoulders as a breeze kicks by. It’s not like Tugger was wrong. It has been a long night.
Maybe Munk will take a short nap himself.
Notes:
For a long time I wasn’t satisfied with this fic because I felt like none of the story elements were actually resolved in the end, but then it kind of occurred to me recently that it can’t be resolved. Misto’s self-esteem, Tugger and his mother, Munk’s too-high standards for himself and his history with Macavity– all of these are issues that follow them to adulthood, right into Gold Rush and the stories that (hopefully) will follow it. I couldn’t possibly get this fic to a point where it felt ‘finished’ because nothing actually ends here.
But anyways, you can follow me at millenari dot tumblr dot heck, hopefully I'll post another fic in the next, idk, three to five years.