Settling

"One sec," Arnaud said, jiggling the lock and giving the door a soft thump with his shoulder as he turned the handle.

Entering through the kitchen, the aardwolf threw his keys into a bowl on the counter where they clattered mutely against his wallet, which he'd apparently forgotten on his way out the door (again). He flipped the lights on and threw today's mail on the pile of yesterday's (and the day before's) next to the bowl. "C'mon in. Sorry about the, uh, mess," Arnaud said.

Meyer fumbled through the door with his shoulder bag, his duffel bag, and his fencing bag in tow, too physically exhausted, emotionally drained, and slightly tipsy to bother taking his time. He sloughed himself and his baggage through the doorway, letting it land in a pile on the brown Mondrian-esque linoleum floor, and started rummaging through the cupboards.

"Glasses are next to the sink," Arnaud called from around the corner. Meyer fished out a glass covered in pink lacquer flamingoes and filled it from the tap, pounded the whole thing in one go, then filled it again. "Just changing back into my house pants."

House pants. Meyer took a personal inventory. What the hell was he even wearing? Baggy light gray zip hoodie over a heathered blue t-shirt with a cartoon rabbit pattern, black joggers, blue and orange Adidas trail running shoes. He pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose so he could pinch it hard enough to drag the pain from the back of his head into the front, then sighed and shook himself for a moment.

"Where do you want me to put my bags?" he called out.

"Oh, anywhere's fine, just. You know, move whatever if it's in your way," came Arnaud's reply.

The hare looked around a moment and settled on stashing his stuff in the corner by the dining room table. "Spartan" was the opposite of the word you'd use to describe Arnaud's apartment; the living room wasn't much but it was a pretty snug fit. A long, ugly orange-and-yellow tartan davenport dominated the room, situated in front of a lot of bookshelves and certainly more books than could fit on them. Meyer ran his fingers along some of their spines. History, art, literature, science...oh my god. Comics? There was a whole shelf of comics. Unbelievable. What a nerd, Meyer thought, catching himself smiling despite the thought.

On the wall opposite the bookshelves hung the TV, the only other domineering object in the room. A mess of cords flowed down behind an entertainment center. There were about three or four dozen bluray discs taking up residence there; Meyer spotted some familiar titles, mostly animated films and Saturday Morning Cartoon compilations. He spotted a game console and a controller, mostly untouched, dusty and alone – its mate on the coffee table next to a stack of library books and an empty cereal bowl.

Walls that weren't all bookshelves or television were mostly photographs from around Hollyhawk and the surrounding area with a sprinkling of cartoon cels mixed in. There were pictures of the Cyril D. Flatwood Reservoir, a photo of the train tracks splitting through Bridlevale Woods, a photo of Hollyhawk Station...and, huh. A photo of he and Arnaud.

He lifted it off the wall and held it in his hands. It was the two of them at a class trip they'd taken in their freshman year. Behind them was the Schoenfeld Dam. Arnaud was giving him...rabbit ears? As if I didn't already have enough of those, Meyer mused. He remembered this trip now: it was part of the high school's "Apprenticeship Pathways Program" to get teens interested in trade careers. At that point the two of them had pretty much known where they were headed, though; Arnie wanted to be a librarian, and Meyer's parents made very clear his future had been decided for him.

Shows what they know, he snorted, putting the photo back.

Arnaud rounded the corner. "Hey, so. Any thoughts on food?" He flopped down on the couch and pulled his phone out in one swift motion.

"Edible," muttered the hare. "You're into photography?"

"Yeah, you could say that!" he replied, lifting his head above the back of the couch. "I was the college newspaper photographer my junior year, then got a job at the Gazette-Dispatch for a couple of months. Now that I'm at the library, it's more of a hobby."

"Mmm," Meyer mumbled into his water glass.

Arnaud pulled up the food delivery app and started scrolling idly through the local fare. Meyer slid open the glass door to the balcony and stepped out into the evening.

Hollyhawk at night wasn't much to look at from three stories up; lots of sodium lamps and halide bulbs lighting the streets and the assortment of porch lights and yellowing business signs speckling the criss-cross blocks near the center of town. He could hear a flag clanking against a flagpole somewhere, the rush of cars from the freeway just outside of town.

Setting his glass of water down, he fished his cigarette case out of his pocket and tapped it against his hand a few times, pulling one out and lighting it quick as you please.

"Smoking?" he heard behind him. Arnaud was frowning; he could see that much in the contrast of the shitty porch lighting.

"Y-yeah."

"I can't believe you never quit." The slider opened and Arnaud came outside. He was wearing a Captain Cottontail t-shirt and a pair of...were those Toucan Sam pajamas? He leaned against the balcony, breathing in a little secondhand and coughing.

"I mean. I did, for a while. It's just, well. You know. Rough couple of weeks."

"Do...do you wanna talk abo--"

"No," Meyer snipped. "I don't."

"Okay," Arnaud sighed. They both stared out into the night for a moment. Meyer took another drag.

The silence was aggressive and lasted longer than it should've. Meyer broke it.

"Thanks for picking me up."

"Huh?" It took the aardwolf a moment. "Oh, yeah. No problem."

"This...this is really hard."

"What is?"

"Being here. Being...being here. Being back home. I don't wanna be here," he said. "I'm not supposed to be here."

"What's so bad about Hollyhawk, My? I get that it's not the city but, y'know, people, people have lives here, too."

"Everything here feels like it's going nowhere. It's like a fucking one-horse town."

Arnaud chuckled. "Yeah, well, you know that's not true. There's probably, like, at least three generations of horses that live here."

Meyer coughed as he laughed. "Dammit, Arnie, you know what I mean."

"It's not as miserable as you're making it out to be. You've been gone a long time. Things change. We've all changed. We need each other here just as much as anyone needs anyone anywhere else."

The hare stubbed his cigarette out on the balcony rail and flicked it into the night. "Don't you ever feel like you've outgrown it? I mean, look at you. Captain Cottontail? The comic book collection? Cereal for dinner? You're like a child clinging on to a life that passed you by."

He regretted the remark as soon as it came out of his mouth.

"I'm myself," Arnaud said, a serrated edge in his reply. The words hit Meyer square between the ribs, just below the heart. "I own myself and my choices, and I'm not sorry that doesn't meet with your approval. I'm trying to lend a hand. I get what you're going throu--"

He was cut off. Meyer looked him square in his narrowed eyes and bared teeth. "You don't get it at all, Arnie! You have no idea what failure looks like! You're out here 'living the dream,'" Meyer growled, exaggerated air quotes and all. "You got what you wanted."

The emotions of the last few days, the weight of everything happening to him, all of it was starting to catch up. His voice broke. He could feel the waterworks engaging. Meyer's expression went from angry to exhausted in a flash. "I'm fucked, pal." He smacked the back of his palm into his other hand, the sound punctuating that last sentence. "I don't know what to do."

Meyer was trying to look anywhere but at Arnaud. The ceiling, the floor, the bugs buzzing around the porch light, his shoes. Arnaud put a single hand on Meyer's shoulder and pulled him into an embrace. Meyer started sobbing with the entire weight of his body, sniffling into the aardwolf's shoulder, muffled wails between ragged breaths.

Arnaud squeezed him gently, scents of stale mentholated air, athletic deodorant, and twice-worn t-shirt mingling with the damp autumn night air in his nose. Minutes passed before Meyer caught up with his own grief. "I'm scared," said the hare.

"It's okay to be scared," he replied.

Meyer pulled away, face wet with tears. "I'm still hungry."

Arnaud sighed. "Yeah. How about pizza?"

A sniff. "Is Rowan's still around?"

"Yeah," the aardwolf smiled. "We could get Rowan's. Come inside and I'll call it in."

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