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It was just a pit stop at one of the numerous Targets across the country. Sung didn’t even know what state they were in, really. He was barely aware they were ahead of schedule; he still rushed, until something caught his eye, and he stopped in his tracks.
Clearance aisle. Beat up box. He still had to get food, hand sanitizer.
He grabbed it off the shelf and went straight to the self checkout. He didn’t even hold the bag normally as he finished his shopping, opting to hug it to his chest.
When he thumped into the passenger seat, he kept staring at the box in his lap. Meouch peered over as he buckled in, not saying anything until he started pulling out.
“Who’d y’get that for?” Meouch asked, voice going up just so, just a hint of incredulity.
“For myself,” Sung answered.
It felt too private to leave on the dashboard. Too personal.
It was just a toy, Sung rationed, just a silly, furry, toy, that anyone could have given to them and they decided to keep and display because it was quirky and weird and that was their whole brand.
It just happened to be a toy he didn’t want to share. He kept it held to his chest once he got it out of the packaging, thrown away at the next pit stop. Fingers going over fur, plastic making up the face, trying to find a spot they just fit, would fidget comfortably as he stared out the window at the landscape whipping past.
He helped unpack the van with one arm. It was a hotel in the middle of downtown, much stranger things abound than one musician helping his group unpack while he clutched a furby.
Most of the equipment stayed in the car. When they stayed in motels, the empty parking lot meeting the sky, the horizon, they’d cram it all into the room, motivated to organize the small space by the prospect of theft or vandalization or terribly increment weather. But an underground hotel parkade?
Might as well leave their valuables dangling from the rear view.
Sung leaned on Havve’s suitcase in the elevator as they headed to their room. His own backpack slouched low on his back, hands occupied, thumb rubbing the funny little tuft of fake hair.
When they walked out, Phobos tapped him on the elbow.
You gonna sleep with that tonight? He asked.
Sung looked down at the toy. Tilted it up, to look back at him. It’s eyes were blue. “Maybe,” he answered.
If it turns on in the night I’m sleeping in the lobby.
“Oh, it won’t,” Sung said quickly, shaking his head to punctuate. “The batteries are dead already.”
Phobos nodded, left it at that.
Not just dead, he found out.
No, that would be too easy. Instead, furby upended, pocket screwdriver pinched in his hand, hunched on the floor, Sung found that the battery had leaked. Or broken open. Whatever happened, it meant battery acid had leaked out.
Pale yellow, almost crystalline, almost pretty, if it didn’t make his lip pull back from his teeth in a grimace.
Feel a mourning pain.
He scraped it out into the garbage can. Meouch helped, tissues stuffed in his nose, claws working the flakes of acid out of the crevices.
Sung set it on the nightstand between the beds when he went to sleep. His hand hovered over it after placing it. Hesitating. He glanced across the room, scanning over the rest of his bandmates. Havve was in the bathroom, washing his face and the mask covering it, a meticulous routine he kept up no matter their circumstance. He didn’t rest until past midnight. Meouch was laying across the other bed, on his stomach, pillow hugged under his chin, flicking through cable channels. He’d nap soon, pop back awake for a few hours in the night, and sleep again at sun rise. Phobos was on the floor, leaning against the foot of the bed Sung was on. Hair up in a loose scrunchie, magazine pages flipping, head tilting up and down as he looked from his reading material to the TV. He’d sleep in the car, once they took off.
No one would say anything. No one had said anything.
He kissed his furby goodnight, and tucked himself into bed.