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The situation starts out fairly simple.
After graduating from high school, Beach set his eye on going to college. Student loans are annoying, expensive, and usually not worth the money or stress, but his only option. His older brother Benji barely had the money to keep xemself above water, and their parents were out of the picture.
So renting an apartment and splitting the rent with a stranger seemed like his best option.
He meets his roommate at an underground band's gig in a run down, worn club, on a quiet Thursday. The few waiters and waitresses he sees are too busy chatting to each other to pay attention to him. Most people at the bar are a decade or two older than him, likely regulars unwilling to make a change in their routine. It'd be understaffed if there weren't so few people.
The band playing is a mediocre Monkees tribute band, using a tambourine and keyboard instead of a drum kit and guitar. They aren't bad-- the tiger singing has puzzaz, and the hummingbird on keyboard has a good idea of rhythm-- but they clash, in coordination and outfits. It doesn't take a genius to notice the looks they send each other if they miss the beat or note. He could probably spend hours dissecting their movements towards and away from each other.
Or maybe Beach is just going insane from boredom.
When he's approached by a dog who looks close to his age, he chooses to take the distraction from the poetry waxing itself in his brain. He looks up from the cheap beer he doesn't even like, trying to convey a friendly look just with his eyes.
"You seemed lonely." The dog says, a drink nursed in their own paws. "And you're the first person I've seen here who isn't old enough to be my mom."
Beach outstretches his paw for a handshake. "Beach Bear."
"Dook. I'm a college student."
"What're you majoring in?” Beach takes a small sip, resisting the urge to wince and spit it back out.
"Astronomy. I really like space." Dook blushes and averts his gaze as he sits down, fingers tapping on his glass. "My current roommates don't like it very much, though. Um, I'm hoping to move out this semester. Probably stay with a friend until I can afford an apartment."
Beach thinks about the chances of him finding a roommate a week after moving in, someone who he can actually get along with, in Dook. The chances are rare, and there's always the chance of Dook being a serial killer, staying in a run down bar and waiting for strangers who look vulnerable or worth something.
"That's cool." He looks at nothing in particular for a moment, thinking.
"Was that too much information on our first meeting? I'm sorry." Dook looks impossibly more sheepish now, eyes shining with uncertainty.
"No- no, sorry. I just got lost in thought." They share a near-smile together, sitting at a near empty bar as Steppin' Stone plays in the background. Beach meets Dook's eyes in the dim lighting.
"Does that happen a lot?" Dook tilts his head with a smile itching at his mouth.
"No, usually I get lost in cities." Beach winces at his own joke, but Dook's smile grows at it.
“What--what made you wanna major in English?”
Beach shrugs, leaning back a bit on the bar stool, careful not to lose his grip and fall. “I really like writing. I think it's one of the most powerful things you can do. Ideas are circulated through books. And it also looks good on a resume.”
Dook smiles. “What kind of stuff do you write?
“Anything, but I prefer fiction. Fantasy can be magical and still have a glimmer of truth. I’ve considered writing a biography for the hell of it, but it just isn’t my thing. I like the freedom fiction gives me.” Beach leans in. "It's also really funny to see the look on people's faces when I tell them I'm an English major.
Dook's eyes shine with excitement as his ears raise upwards. "Oh! Beach Bear, you wanna hear a joke?"
Beach nods. "Can't be worse than the one I told."
"What's a bear's faavorite dessert?"
Briefly, Beach's mind flickers back to the serial killer idea. Though, most serial killers wouldn't entertain their victims with shitty newspaper cartoon jokes. He tilts his head questioningly, subconsciously parroting Dook just a moment before.
"Bluebeary pie." Dook shows no embarrassment at the subpar pun, joy clear in every mannerism.
Beach giggles at it, Dook laughing with him. They devolve into full laughter, catching the attention of a bartender and an old couple in a booth.
It's easy to fall into conversation with each other, taking sips of their drinks and throwing together handfuls of coins to buy another beer or two. Part of Beach doesn't want this to end.
Part of him thinks that maybe, he's just a little drunk.
He glances at the clock with cracked glass in the corner, watching it hit eleven. He winces at the time. He glances back at Dook with an apologetic look in his eyes. Dook copies it with a smile of understanding. Neither of them say a word. Beach impulsively grabs a napkin and waves down a waitress.
"Do you have a pen, by any chance?" She fishes one out of her pocket with an unimpressed look. He gives her a grateful smile and finds himself writing down his apartment's phone number. He pushes it into Dook's paws.
"I gotta go, man, but um. This was nice. If you ever wanna call, or find a roommate…" Beach excuses himself from the bar, leaving a small tip for the waitress at his seat. Dook's eyes widen, but his mouth stays closed. Beach quickens his pace in embarrassment.
He walks to the small, cramped apartment building and fishes his key out of his jacket pocket. He can hear one neighbor blasting music and the other's bed creaking. He pays neither any mind, slipping inside and locking the door behind him.
Hanging his coat on one of the creaky kitchen chairs, he kicks off his shoes and walks into his bedroom, lying down. Part of him knows he should get up and change into something else, brush his teeth and double check that all of his school work is finished, but he can't bring himself to get back up. Despite the sounds of sirens and cars from the city, he falls asleep easily, dreaming of brown fur and kind eyes.
--
Waking up on the weekend turns out not to be any better than during the week, his back aching from the hard mattress. The alarm glares noisily in his face, clock blinking 6 am. He goes to snooze it before remembering his current predicament: finding a roommate.
The problem Beach hadn't thought of when he originally told the landlord that he had a roommate was that there was a single bed in the apartment. There was a dusty couch in the living room, but he'd be lying if he said he'd be willing to give up a bed for that. He certainly wouldn't split the pay of an apartment with a stranger only to sleep on a half a century old couch.
Beach sighs, rolling out of bed. He freshens himself up in the bathroom before entering the kitchen. In his fridge is a half empty carton of eggs, less than a half gallon of milk, and butter. He grabs the butter, wincing and resigning to go to the grocery store later that day. He uses a knife to slice a piece of bread from the loaf his older brother's friend had given him as a goodbye gift.
Inside a cabinet is an old pan he puts over the stove, turning the knob. He groans and opens the fridge again, grabbing an egg as well. Preparing to make french toast-- cracking the egg into a bowl, grabbing a fork to beat it with, slicing a piece of butter for the pan-- is a routine he’s long gotten used to. It’s second nature to soak the bread and place it, avoiding the slight sizzle that jumps up to catch his paws. Beach presses a couple buttons on his cassette player, letting Surfin’ Safari blast into the apartment as he flips the pan.
He counts in his head what items he’ll need to buy and how much they’ll cost, releasing the french toast out of the pan and onto a plate. He spares no time in scarfing it down, wrinkling his nose at the temperature. As Chug-A-Lug switches on, he makes a mental note to get dressed and look around town. He needs a job, and he has only today and Sunday to find one. For a moment, it feels serene in the room. Sunlight filters through the cheap plastic blinds, his only source of light.
He just manages to stand and stretch when a loud ringing noise blares into his ears. His gaze finds the culprit: the telephone. His eyes widen as he scrambles out of his seat, abandoning his plate. He picks up the phone and rests it between his head and shoulder. “Hello?”
“I-is this Beach Bear? The Beach Bear who likes Blueberry pie?”
Beach can’t stop himself from smiling at the voice, recognizing it. “If you’re Astrology Dook, then yes.”
“No, this is his twin brother, Astronomy Doop." Beach closes his eyes as he laughs. Dook waits for his laughter to settle before continuing. “I just, uh, wanted to call and say hi. I didn’t wake you up, did I?”
Beach shakes his head before repeating it verbally. “Nah, man, you’re fine. I wake up way too early for my own good.”
“I-I was thinking about what you said on Thursday. About finding a roommate? Would… Do you, uh, have a roommate?”
“O-oh, no, I was planning on looking for one today. It might be a bit difficult, though, we’d have to split the rent and there’s only one bed. There is a couch, but I can’t say it's very comfortable. Not the most tempting place to live.”
“I’d be down to stay. If you, you’d have me anyways.”
The rest of Beach’s early morning is spent on the phone with Dook, first discussing how to split the rent and then watching the sunset from separate sides of the city. The time they spend together is peaceful, probably the most peace Beach has had since he moved for college. He tells Dook about his fascination in surf rock, and finds out that Dook likes trashy horror movies along with his special interest in space. He offers to bring one over for lunch.
“Damn it.” He mutters as he digs through his wardrobe for an acceptable outfit, casual enough to be friendly but not cheap enough to be noticeable. He decides on an outfit quickly enough, a Hawaiian shirt and matching shorts. Then, he grabs his wallet and rushes out of the building, waving a quick hello and goodbye to the old lady who lives a few doors down. The walk to the grocery store seems simultaneously too long and too short as he slips into the doors. He’s quick enough to get back to his apartment as the clock strikes half past ten.
As his spaghetti cooks on the stove, sauce in a separate bowl, he hears the same loud ringing noise he heard earlier. He raises an eyebrow, picking the phone up with confusion. “Hello?”
Benji’s voice comes through the telephone, noisy crashes and conversations behind xem.
“Oh, hey, yeah, I found a roommate. No, I can’t talk right now, I’m cooking lunch. Love you too. Say hi to the band from me.” He sighs, knocking the phone back into place while keeping a sharp eye on the stove.
Time passes much faster than he would’ve liked, because before he knows it, Dook’s knocking at the door. He drops the pasta bowl onto the counter with more force than he meant to, double checking he hadn’t broken it before rushing to the door. He lets out a breathless “hey.”
Dook smiles back at him. "Hey, Beach Bear." Over his shoulder is a small bag with vaguely square shaped items inside.
"Future roommate." Beach nods, moving to lean against the wall. "I made spaghetti. I don't know how you like it, so there's cheese and tomato sauce. Uh. I don't know if dogs can eat tomatoes?"
"N-no, it's okay. I can eat cheese or just plain spaghetti. I'm not picky, Beach." Dook laughs, and Beach chooses to ignore the slight awkwardness in it. "It's your house. Or, apartment. You didn't have to make anything. Um, I also brought something."
"The movie?" Beach raises an eyebrow with a goofy expression, watching Dook giggle with fondness.
"Heh, yeah, and I also brought dessert. Just two slices of cheesecake. There's a really nice bakery down the street. The nice old lady who owns it useda be friends with my mama a couple decades ago."
Beach hums, grabbing two bowls and forks. "You hungry?"
Dook follows Beach, serving himself and sitting down at the small kitchen island.
"Oh, do you want a drink? I have… water. And water."
"Aw, I was hoping you had water." Dook teases, stuffing a forkful of spaghetti into his mouth, then pausing. "This is good."
"Pasta always is." Answers Beach, setting down two glasses of water and sitting down himself. Dook thanks him, and spends the first minute eating in silence.
"Have you always lived in California?"
Beach nods, mindlessly spinning strands of spaghetti into his fork. "Been here since I was a cub. I used to live a little further up north, closer to the city, but here is closer to the college."
"I moved here for college. Born and raised in New Orleans."
"Your accent seemed different." Beach's ears flick when he talks. "I thought it'd be rude to ask."
"If I was Californian, I'd be like," Dook puts on a horrible impersonation of a valley girl mixed with a surfer dude. "Like, surfs up, duuuude. I love weed."
Beach bursts out laughing, nearly knocking over his water. "Shut it, Louisiana boy. Have you ever seen waves that big?"
"Hurricanes."
He winced. "I'll take your word for that one. Do you have any siblings over there?"
"Mhm, there's a lotta us. I'm the youngest outta… eight. I think."
"Jesus. I go insane with just my only older brother." Beach grabs more cheese, stuffing it into his mouth instead of on the pasta.
"It's not so bad, we're all very close." Dook has a fond look in his eyes.
"I'm surprised you haven't killed each other yet."
--
The first night, Dook sleeps on the couch.
Beach almost goes to offer the bed, but keeps his mouth shut. They split up the small wardrobe in his room, and Dook sets up camp in the living room, soft pillow and blankets from home draped over him. He goes to bed earlier than Beach does, snoring lightly on the couch as Beach finishes homework he should've done much earlier.
"Stupid professor." He sighs and slams his textbook short, placing them back into his bag with little care. He growls at his bedside clock, glaring at the blinking, blaring 10:39 pm. He watches it turn 10:40.
The bed is still stiff and uncomfortable, and his pillow isn't much better, but he falls asleep after twenty minutes of thinking about the first horror movie Dook had him watch, and the shitty special effects.
He dreams of clocks ticking, and running through hallways of schools he hasn't been in for years. His brother and xeir friends make an odd appearance, and he almost makes it over towards them before he's roused.
He scrunches his eyes closed tighter, groaning. "Wha'?"
He opens them to Dook leaning over him with a disgruntled expression, eyes shiny and mouth quivering. "Beach? Can… can I sleep in here tonight, please? It's… I don't like it in there."
Beach grunts, rolling over. Dook slides into the bed, careful to keep space between them. "Thank you, Beach Bear."
"Just Beach. Just call me Beach." He murmurs, falling back asleep.
He dreams of soft fur and gentle gazes.
Neither of them talk about last night in the morning, Beach heading to college early and Dook sleeping in.
Beach stops by a bakery he's fairly certain is the one Dook mentioned and grabs a chocolate chip cookie to go. He mentions Dook to the owner, and she immediately brightens, delaying him by five minutes to talk about how much of a sweetheart she finds Dook to be.
He finds himself not minding that so much.
His classes breeze by thankfully fast, with two back to back before he gets out at lunchtime. When he returns to the apartment, Dook is in the living room, writing something down on a piece of paper on the floor.
"Hey," Beach waves, disappearing into his room for a moment to sling his bag off of his shoulders and onto the floor. He picks up a couple towels from the floor.
Dook looks up from the paper, ears twitching. "Hey. I took a shower, hope y'don't mind. Thought I'd get some work done."
"Your apartment now too." Beach hums as he walks into the kitchen, making himself a sandwich and talking back and forth to Dook about their days.
When the conversation lulls, Beach finishing his sandwich on the couch and Dook slowing down his writing, he speaks up again. "Thank you for last night, Beach. I just felt all… homesick, 'n wanted someone with me."
"It's all good, I understand. Anytime you need somethin', I'll probably be in my room. You're welcome to come in, I'm just not sure if the bed will hold for too long." Beach grins, Dook mimicking him.
Beach says nothing when Dook curls into bed with him later, lying a little closer than he did the night before
--
Sharing the bed becomes commonplace, molding into their schedules with ease. Beach wakes up and makes himself and Dook breakfast, packing a ham sandwich into a container for Dook to take to his classes. He grabs his bag and tiptoes out of the apartment, careful not to rouse Dook.
He goes to various classes over the weeks, always returning home at dinner at the latest, cooking whatever Dook suggests.
They watch Dook's horror flicks on the couch when they're both free, huddled under the large blanket Dook's mother sewed for him. They make to 10 pm before Dook dozes off, leaning his head on Beach's shoulder.
Beach gently shakes him awake. "Go to sleep in the bed, not here."
Dook grunts, sleepily leaning forward to plant a kiss on Beach's cheek, before stumbling up and out of the room. "Night, Beach."
The kisses don't stop there.
--
Beach warms up to it quickly, kissing Dook when he wakes up in the morning and when he gets back from his classes. They sleep side by side, waking up entangled together.
Kissing onto the cheek turns into kissing on the lips, sometimes kisses on the forehead or paws. They find themselves in domestic situations, cooking each other meals and cuddling on the couch.
"What are we?" Beach murmurs one day, curled up by Dook's side in bed.
Dook hums, eyes closed. "Mm. A bear and a dog."
"In relationship terms?"
Dook makes a noise that sounds like a giggle, pulling him closer. "Dunno. Roommates."
"Roommates." Beach agrees.