Chapter Text
Pond's POV
I want to get one thing straight. I don’t like the animals at MBAS. They shit, which I have to clean up, and they make me sneeze, which sometimes happens as I clean the shit. Which makes a mess. Enough said.
Even so, I don’t want Sir Carrots the Third to die. And what a way to go. “Like raw?” I ask. “He eats them raw?”
Phuwin grips the wheel tighter. “We’re not sure exactly. Roasts them? I don’t like to think about it.”
“We can just show up at his house unannounced?” I look out the window, still feeling weird to be back. To see all that’s changed. All that’s stayed the same.
“We call it a welfare check,” Phuwin says. “We added a clause to the rabbit contract, just for this guy.” He glances over at me. “You did have him sign a contract, right?”
“Yes,” I answer defensively. I’m not an imbecile. Although I could have handled this better. In fact, I’m starting to feel nauseous.
We make a sudden right hand turn and pull into a gravel driveway. Trees grow close to the path, and some branches brush the top of the van. My stomach knots tighter the closer we get to his house.
Finally, the van halts, and almost simultaneously, Phuwin opens his door and jumps out. “Where’s Carrots?” he shouts.
I see that he’s screaming at a man, the man who adopted the rabbit, Joe, who sits on his porch strumming a guitar. He stops mid-strum. The music hangs in the air—and it’s almost like a smell the way it hits me—the way they say a smell can bring back a memory faster than anything else. God, I miss playing. It hasn’t even been that long. Just forty-eight hours. But it’s still the longest I’ve gone without playing since I can remember.
Joe stares at him as if trying to formulate the best possible answer. He’s got thin blonde hair pulled back into a stringy ponytail, and he wears his white shirt tucked into his jeans. “There’s no Carrots here.”
Phuwin sighs and walks closer to the porch. “You can’t just change his name and pretend like he’s not here. Where’s the bunny, Joe?”
“You can’t take him,” he says. “I adopted him.”
Phuwin throws up his hands. “You can’t eat him!”
“Prove it then.” His tone relaxes like he’s found a way out of this. “Prove that I’m going to eat him.”
A miserable expression crosses Phuwin’s face, and he looks over at me, as if to see if I have any thoughts. I know shit about legality. I could text Xavier, but I don’t know how to even condense this bizarro situation into a quick text. I’ll have to figure this out without my trusty legal team. “Hey Joe,” I say. “That’s a nice guitar.”
Joe smiles at me as if we’re playing on the same team, and Phuwin is on his own team. “I told you at the shelter,” Joe says. “I’m a big fan of you, man.”
“Thanks, man,” I say warmly, using the voice I know fans like, trying to build rapport. “How about this? I’ll play you a song. Any song you want. If you give us the rabbit.”
What I hope doesn’t show is that I’m terrified out of my fucking mind.
The stage fright.
What if it comes back?
Sure, it’s just Phuwin and Joe, but the stage fright is a relatively new situation, which has grown increasingly worse over the last five shows. I don’t know when and where it’ll pop up. And the last thing I want is to have a fucking panic attack in front of Phuwin. First, because he’s judge-y. And second, because I don’t want him to know about my problem. Because it’s mine to deal with.
“Only if I can film you, man,” Joe says. “You know what they say? Pics or it didn’t happen.”
Instagram? This guy? Not expected, but okay.
And shit. My potential panic attack captured on video. For all the world to see.
Shit. Shit!
But if it’ll save Carrots from a horrible death, a death that’s my fault, then I’ll do it. “You got a deal,” I say, making my way up to the porch.
I turn and look at Phuwin, and he flashes a hopeful smile. His eyes get a certain twinkle when he smiles full-force like that. It makes my chest hurt.
I grab the guitar, and even though it’s not mine, it still feels like home.
Ahh, so this is what I know, I think as I trace my fingers down the neck.
And there’s a security in familiarity. A warmth.
“Play Cassiopeia,” Joe commands, and that warmth nearly disappears.
Sometimes I feel like I’m a performance monkey. Jump now. No, higher. Don’t jump. Okay, jump again. I mean, I get good money for it, which I’m grateful for, and at the end of the day, I’m doing something I love, which I’m even more grateful for. But I also know I’ve given a part of myself away for good, a part I’ll never get back, and that’s the price of performing. That’s the price of being a public personality. A price my parents taught me well as a kid.
I start strumming. It makes sense that he chose this song. It’s on the more acoustic side of some of my band’s other songs. It’s not like we’re hardcore metal or anything, more a folky indie rock.
Cassiopeia is about the constellation in the north sky. Her brightest star, Schedar, used to have light fluctuations all through the nineteenth century, but none have been seen in recent years. Why is that? How do you go from fluctuating to steady? And it’s no secret that I want to know because I want that for myself. Fame is nothing but a roller-coaster.
I keep focused on the guitar, not bothering to look up or make eye contact with my audience. I’m terrified any distraction away from my guitar —Phuwin especially—will be a point of no return, and then the panic will claw its way in.
I’m surprised when I get to the final chords and find myself relaxed, pulled into that place, that special place I go for my music.
I’m startled by clapping, which I’m hoping is Phuwin, but it’s Joe.
Phuwin claps too though, albeit more softly, and a little slower than I would have hoped. In fact, is he slow-clapping me?
His green polo, which fits large, shifts in his clapping and starts to hang down more on one shoulder, revealing some collarbone. A patch of sunlight dances on his forehead. I feel a certain tug at that. A tug closer.
I realize Joe is still filming and stop staring at Phuwin.
Joe fiddles around on his phone, and I can only guess that he’s checking the video. Thankfully, he seems satisfied. He gives me a bro handshake, one of those where you each hold a fist and clasp it close to your chest. It doesn’t seem like it’s a natural thing for him—and it’s not for me either— but I go with it.
“That exec had it coming.” He slaps my back. Hard.
I wince. “Uh, thanks.”
“What exec?” Phuwin pipes up.
“No one.”
“Why did he have it coming?” he asks.
Joe looks from me to Phuwin and back to me. I choose to ignore Phuwin’s questions, so Joe thankfully follows my lead.
Needless to say, though, we all stand in awkward silence. A few acorns fall.
“I’ll go get Carrots,” Joe finally says. He disappears into his house.
“Were you slow clapping me?” I can’t stop thinking about it for some reason.
“No.” He shrugs. “That’s my regular clap.”
“Your regular clap is a slow clap?”
“Jeez, I just don’t rapid clap.” Phuwin does something weird with his hands, which I assume is supposed to be very fast clapping. It’s surprisingly cute.
“Yeah, don’t do that,” I say. “Ever again.”
He gives me that forward nod like he’s about to say something delightful—and by delightful, I mean, annoying—but suddenly, his face brightens. “Carrots,” he squeals and runs up the porch steps to scoop him away from Joe.
Carrots looks a little bewildered, nose going hard.
I grab the carrier from the van and help place Carrots inside. I breathe a sigh of relief as Phuwin closes the door with Carrots, peeking out, looking untouched.
I wave to Joe, and we jump back in the van.
The smell of Phuwin, the beach roses thing, seems stronger in the enclosed space. I crack a window.
“Will you text Chandra that we’re heading back with Carrots?” He adjusts the rearview mirror before backing up.
“I don’t give anyone my phone number.”
“Don’t worry,” Phuwin says smugly. “She won’t try to date you.”
“Do you know how much my number is worth? Anyone could sell it. Then I get a bunch of texts and have to change my number. Then I have to send an email to everyone in my email contact list, but I’m always missing like thirty people because—”
“Okay, okay!” He grabs his phone from the center console and tosses it in my lap. “Use my phone.”
I hold the phone in Phuwin's direction. “I need facial recognition.”
Phuwin stops the car and looks my way.
I open it, but his Android is a different size than my iPhone, so my thumb hits an app. Apparently, it’s the internet browser. And lo and behold, there’s my name in multiple tabs. “Excuse me, Phuwin,” I say.
“Yes, Naravit.”
“Can you tell me about all these google searches?” I hold up his phone with satisfaction.
You can see the exact moment when he realizes what I’m talking about. His dark eyes widen, and his lips pout into an alarmed, “Oh!”
“Give me that,” Phuwin says, grabbing the phone. He jabs his finger several times, presumably closing out all the tabs.
“Are you going to explain?” It’s impossible to keep the pleasure from my voice.
“No.” He seems to concentrate hard on the trafficless driveway.
“I never would have thought of you as an internet stalker.”
“I’m not!”
“Are you blaming Louise?” I ask playfully. “She stole your phone and typed it in with her murderous little paws?”
Phuwin frowns.
“Should I hire extra security? More protection?”
His lips press into a line. “You might need protection because of other issues.”
I’m nearly giddy at this point. And maybe it’s true. Maybe I am entering dangerous territory—for entirely different reasons than what I joke about. Either way, I’ll need to protect myself more than I am.