I Deserve To Be Happy
Picture by: xxenopuss_osapo on Twitter
Story by: me
Forward:
I’ve never written ‘furry’ material before. Most of my paid publications have been satirical, critical, or kafkaesque. This is, as you might notice, not any of those things. However, I felt a bit ashamed that I myself contributed nothing to the community other than other people’s art. This is my attempt to rectify that. I’m not an artist—and being a not-artist, this is the only kind of ‘art’ I can offer of my own. I’d love to hear what you think of the short story and if you’d like to see more involving these characters. Happy Valentine's Day! ❤
***
The fox sat flat against the bed and stared at the ceiling, thinking as his ears pressed flat against the sides of his head and his tail shifted beneath his weight. Time gave him that—gave him the option to think. To breathe in. To choke and feel the weight and pressures of guilt rip into his thoughts like maggots. The more he thought about it, the more time he gave to it. The more time he gave to the self-doubt that happily took root, and grew over his thoughts, greedily taking in the sunlight of time.

No, the fox thought. No more of that.

After all, even fear can be too frightful if running with its claws sunken into imagination.

And like an unthought-but-welcome distraction, the ceiling fan he’d been staring at for the past several minutes—watching the blades whirl and twirl around, spat out a piece of dust onto his muzzle, causing him to sneeze softly and rub his eyes, staring for a few moments too long at his paws.

But it still felt like that, the fox pondered. It still feels like too much and too soon.
Was it though?

Was it simply too much? The fox asked himself. Don’t I deserve it?

Perhaps there was too much time to think. Or too little—at least when it came to the grandiose emotions he scaled when he wondered and contemplated. It all felt just so easy when lost in thought—to scale those mountainous passages and traverse the treacherous, viney under groves of what-if’s and what-could-be’s. To simply skip over the self-doubt and the guilt of feeling happy as if they were nothing but insects. In practice however, the fox just sat with his back against the king-sized mattress, still rough and unkempt from the night prior—all while staring at the ceiling and thinking.

It’s a position that’s oddly uncomfortable, the fox found—yet he couldn’t move. Not at that point, at least. It’s a position so chilling because it can feel like gravity, after being otherwise content to exist like a cloud, suddenly presses down with all the weight it can muster, exerting a firm, even pressure across his chest.

As his back fur ruffled softly against the messy blankets and wrinkled sheets falling off the bed, he took some comfort in knowing someone that felt even bigger than gravity was around to hold him, and he wished that someone were there now. To wrap himself up tightly in those big, thick arms and tell him it’s okay to feel the way he feels and that it’s okay to be loved and okay to be scared and okay to—

He wraps his scrawny arms around himself, closing his eyes as he rubbed his paws against his thin biceps. The fox hugged himself tightly as he tried, and failed, to convince himself the same. To make himself feel the way he makes him feel. His ears twitch a bit as he starts to hear the clanging of pots and pans out in the kitchen. A kind, little hum enters his ears shortly after as the fox hears those familiar heavy pawsteps approach.

The sound of the hum stops just above his head. When the fox opens his eyes, that big, burly brown bear stands above him wearing some ragged jeans, and a beige apron, staring down at him as he scratches under his muzzle.

“Hey there, sleepy head,” the bear whispered, leaning down and gently licking his cheek. “Now, you know I love you, sweety. But you’ve been lyin’ there for a while now,” the bear smiles. “Are you okay?”

The fox looks vaguely in the bear’s direction, nodding his head absentmindedly. “I think so—just thinking.”

The bear grabs the fox by the paws, hoisting him effortlessly off of the bed and wrapping his big, burly bear arms around the small and comparably delicate fox. The fox rubs his muzzle into the bear’s neck fur, which smells pleasantly of honey and batter. The bear rubs the fur between the fox’s ears. “You sure you’re okay?” the bear asks softly, looking down at him.

The fox stares, looking up into the bear’s soft, black eyes. “Yeah. I think I am. Now.”

“Good!” The bear decrees, stepping away, putting a paw on the fox’s shoulder, looking rather ecstatic. “Because I’d hate for you to miss tryin’ my world-famous milk butter honey pancakes!”

“World famous?” The fox asks, raising a brow.

“Well,” the bear chuckles softly, scratching the back of his ear with a claw. “Maybe not world famous, but they’re still really good.” he adds, trying to sell the fox on these. “I promise!”

The fox goes in for another hug, rubbing his muzzle into the bear’s soft fur one more time before stepping back.

A pleasant hum escapes the bear’s lips as he turns and walks off back into the kitchen, getting ready to flip the pancakes, leaving the fox standing in the bedroom alone for just a moment.

“Well?” The bear calls out happily from the hallway as he returns to the kitchen. “You coming?”

I deserve this, the fox thinks, a smile creeping up his muzzle as his ears tilt slightly forward, walking towards the kitchen with a skip in his step and a wag in his tail as gravity once again falls away into that soft, welcoming cloud.

I deserve to be happy.