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The first thing Puffer thinks when he wakes up with a sore throat and aching limbs is oh, for fuck’s sake.
It’s probably just the flu. But there aren’t enough swear words in the world to express how much Puffer hates being sick. The pain, the fever, the inability to do anything for days on end, it’s fucking infuriating. The last time he got sick, he spent three days living on the couch and only eating because his roommates practically poured soup down his throat. That was four months ago. It doesn’t happen often, but when it does, ohhhhhh boy .
He’s not looking forward to this.
It takes him a million years to get dressed, and a million more to make it down the stairs. Every bone in his body aches; each movement feels like rusty nails are stabbing into his joints. Droid is already in the kitchen, flipping something in a pan. He raises an eyebrow as Puffer trudges in.
“What’s up with you?” he asks.
“Wow. Good morning to you too, dickhead.” Puffer fishes a cup out of the cabinet.
“Okay, good morning. Why do you look half dead?”
“You’re very forward today.” Puffer fills up his cup at the sink. He only intended to take a sip, but once he starts drinking he can't stop until it’s empty. The water feels like heaven on his throat. He forgets to breathe until it's over, at which point he’s nearly gasping for air.
Droid’s eyebrow somehow raises even higher.
“Woke up sick,” Puffer explains.
“Yeah, I can see that. Want some pancakes?”
Normally he would say yes, but the thought of all that sugar makes his stomach turn. “Pass.”
“Suit yourself.”
Puffer refills his cup, physically restraining himself from downing the whole thing again. He rifles around in the pantry for a bit, searching for something that won’t make him nauseous, before giving up and tossing some bread in the toaster. Can’t go wrong with toast.
He’s still fucking exhausted, despite being up and moving for a while now, so he sits at the table while he waits. He takes slow sips of the water, just enough to keep the burn in his throat at bay. The fins behind his ears won’t stop twitching; it’s starting to piss him off. He drops his head on the table with a groan.
“You’re really going through it, huh?” Droid says.
“Shut up,” Puffer grumbles. He considers it a small miracle that Droid actually listens.
The toaster dings. Puffer can’t bring himself to lift his head off the table, let alone get up. Luckily he doesn’t have to; Droid puts a plate in front of him a minute later.
“Thanks,” he says, hauling himself upright. Droid hums in response as he sits down with his own food.
Puffer takes a bite of his toast. It tastes like cardboard, sticking to his throat as he swallows. He has to take a sip of water just to get it all the way down. This is going to be harder than he thought. He debates putting some jam on it; it would be a lot better that way, but the thought of his joints screaming as he gets up is enough to kill that idea. He takes another painfully dry bite.
He almost doesn’t see Grizzy enter the kitchen, just a shadow in the corner of his eye.
“Wow,” he says. “You look like shit.”
“Thanks,” Puffer replies dryly. “I’ve noticed.” He takes another bite, too focused on getting the damn thing down his throat to notice that Grizzy has moved to his side until there’s a hand on his forehead.
“Fuck off.” Puffer shoves his arm away.
“You have a fever.”
“And water is wet. Any other wisdom you’d like to share with us today?”
Grizzy rolls his eyes. “Alright, asshole. Are you planning on doing anything about it?”
“Probably just gonna sleep it off.”
“Didn’t work last time.”
“Well it’ll work this time,” he snaps back. Grizzy just sighs and moves away.
Fur brushes against Puffer’s leg; he looks down to see Lila winding around his ankles. Calcifer jumps up on his lap seconds later, butting his head into Puffer’s chin.
“Hello to you too.” Cal meows and makes a move towards his plate; Puffer drags him back just in time.
“Stop that. Let me eat, you little shit,” he says. Cal ignores him in favor of reaching for the plate again. Against his better judgement, Puffer pinches off a corner of the toast and gives it to him. The cat hops down, satisfied for now. Puffer gives Lila a piece too: he can’t be playing favorites.
Droid watches as the cats scamper off into the living room.
“You’re training him to be a nuisance, you know,” he says.
“He’s already a nuisance,” Puffer replies. He chokes down the rest of his toast as Grizzy puts a pill bottle in front of him. He can’t complain with his mouth full, so Puffer picks it up to take a closer look. Fever reducers.
“Take ‘em,” Grizzy says. He grabs a plate for himself and snags a few pancakes off the pile that Droid has made.
“Will you leave me alone if I do?”
“I might.” Puffer glares at him. “Okay fine, I will. After you take them.”
“You’re insufferable,” Puffer grumbles, but he opens the bottle and tosses back a couple pills anyway.
“You knew that when you moved in.”
“Clearly I underestimated it.” Puffer stands with a groan, joints protesting loudly. He puts his plate in the sink and heads for the stairs. “I’m going back to bed.”
“Good luck,” says Droid.
“Call if you need anything,” Grizzy adds. Puffer shoots him an irritated look.
“I thought you were going to leave me alone.”
Grizzy puts his hands up.
“Fine, die then.”
Puffer laughs. Then coughs. Ugh .
Getting up the stairs hurts his bones worse than going down; he barely remembers to close his door before he collapses into bed. He’s barely been awake for thirty minutes– he shouldn’t be so damn tired. Scales bloom on his arms. He wills them away with an irritated huff.
Maybe he should just listen to his body. If it wants him to sleep, then fine, he’ll sleep. He’s fighting a losing battle just to keep his eyes open. So instead he lets them fall shut, and surrenders to the dark.
He’ll feel better after a few more hours.
It’s getting worse.
His room feels hot, too hot. Puffer gave up on repressing the scales a while ago; now he welcomes the prickling chill as they bloom up the sides of his neck. His arms are already covered in them, fins sprouting haphazardly from his forearms. The patterns keep changing; one moment the scales are dappled in little spots, the next they’re banded with thick black stripes. Colors shift from blue to brown to red to green, rippling across his skin like an octopus’s camouflage. If he closes his eyes, he can feel the changes wash over him like waves on the beach.
He’s been closing his eyes a lot recently.
Puffer glances at the clock. 8:03 PM. Five hours since the last time he was awake. It’s a little alarming, how easily time has been slipping away from him. Slowly, reluctantly, he drags himself upright. A towel slides off the back of his neck; he’s not sure how it got there. He also doesn’t recall a glass of water being on his bedside table earlier, but there it is. Next to it, his phone has been plugged into its charger. He picks it up.
Four missed messages. He opens them in order.
Droid: yo, you alive up there?
2:37 PM
Grizzy: brought you water but you were asleep. Text me if you need anything
3:26 PM
Pezzy: You should come downstairs
4:49 PM
Pezzy: fed the cats for you
6:09 PM
Damn, he’d completely forgotten. Thank God for Pezzy. Puffer shoots off a quick ‘ thanks’ to him and Grizzy, and an ‘ unfortunately’ to Droid, then drops his phone back on the table. The light’s already hurting his eyes.
He drinks the water, throat dry as the desert, and tries to ignore how deeply his body yearns for more. His joints feel like they’re swimming in magma as he gets up. He manages to haul himself to the bathroom and do his business without falling and bashing his head into the counter, so he calls that a win.
Once Puffer makes it back to his bed, he finds his eyes drifting towards the fish tank. Well, calling it a tank may be an understatement; the thing is massive. It takes up almost half of the room, with glass walls as high as his elbow. The bottom of the tank is decorated with driftwood and smooth, rounded river stones, a dozen shades of brown and red and white. Aquarium plants sway lazily in the weak current. There’s not a single fish in it.
He’s been staring for a while. Puffer wrenches his gaze away. A little part of him wilts as he does. There’s a familiar prickling feeling along his back; hurriedly, Puffer throws off his shirt before he can ruin it. Just in time, too– spines sprout from his back moments later. They stretch out as they emerge, then fold back and settle flat against his skin. He knows the longest ones run right along his backbone. He also knows not to touch the tips.
Puffer lets out a sigh that comes out halfway to a groan. He hates this body sometimes. Always doing whatever the hell it wants. It’s probably trying to tell him something: to stop playing at being human, maybe. And that’s what this is really about, all of it. He’s not just sick anymore. His body is waging war on itself. On him.
But Puffer’s never been one to go down without a fight.
I’m the fucking boss , he thinks. And with a tremendous amount of effort on his part, the spines retract slowly into his back. Almost immediately, he feels scales bloom in their place. Puffer wills them away too. He nearly cracks a tooth from how hard he’s clenching his jaw, but most of the scales fade.
It’s not supposed to be this hard. He’s had to suppress fins and scales in public (or with friends other than his roommates) so many times that it’s practically second nature. Most of the time, he can do it before they’re even visible.
That wasn’t always the case.
The scars on his chest and back itch. Puffer derails that train of thought before it ends up somewhere he doesn’t like. Pezzy’s right; he should go downstairs. It’s not that late. He should eat something. He’s wasted most of the day in bed but there’s still a few hours left; surely he can get something done.
Just the thought of walking all the way downstairs is enough to exhaust him.
It’s not too late, that little part of him keeps whispering. It echoes in the back of his head. Not too late, not too late. But he’s watching his resolve crumble before his eyes.
Puffer gets up. Walks all the way to the door. And he locks it.
He loves his roommates, don’t get him wrong. But being sick is bad enough; he’d rather die than be mothered right now. Grizzy’s already started, and it’s only been one day. That’s more than enough for Puffer.
His eyes have wandered back to the tank, lost in the flowing patterns of light reflecting off the surface of the water; he tears his gaze away and flops back down on his bed. His body feels like it's made of lead.
He’ll eat in the morning. It’ll be better after a bit more sleep.
The scales on his arms ripple in shades of blue and black, like sunlight reaching down into the depths of the ocean. His back prickles again as a sailfin emerges from his spine. He’s too tired to suppress it.
With each breath, it feels like he’s sinking deeper into the mattress. The world starts to waver, his vision rippling as if he’s underwater. Bit by bit the details fade; the mattress beneath him disappears and he’s floating. The sounds of the house become muffled. The currents of sleep tug at him, rolling over him like waves.
Puffer lets it wash him away.
Is this what Hell feels like?
Puffer’s world is on fire. He can feel his skin crack and burn, but the flames must be invisible because there’s nothing there when he opens his eyes. Each breath scorches his throat, fire crawling down into his lungs. His flesh writhes under his skin.
He has to get up.
Dragging himself out of his bed feels like moving through molasses. His bones are like white-hot rods of steel, burning him from the inside out. HIs blood is boiling. The movement under his skin gets stronger; it's as if his muscles have come to life and begun to slither around just below the surface.
The tank sits quietly across the room. The moment Puffer’s eyes find it, he feels a tug in his gut so strong that it nearly knocks him over. That tank is his beacon, the light at the end of this fiery tunnel. The idea of cool water seems almost too good to be true, but he doesn’t care. He needs to get over there, now.
He takes one staggering step forward. Then another. And another, until his hip is leaning against a cool glass wall. The writhing intensifies again; he’s cracking at the seams, body barely holding itself together. If he waits much longer, he’ll fall to pieces.
The tank wall isn’t very high. Puffer tilts forward and falls, letting his weight carry him over it and into the water. Instantly the invisible burns are soothed; the wildfire in his lungs vanishes as water fills them up. His whole body relaxes in relief.
Then the seams finally give out, and Puffer dissolves.
Puffer’s door has been locked for two full days.
It’s driving Grizzy insane.
He knew it was worse than Puffer would admit. He’d known that since day one, the moment he saw him in the kitchen. Puffer has the best poker face Grizzy has ever seen. The fact that he hadn’t managed to hide how shitty he was feeling that morning should’ve been a massive red flag.
Grizzy had agreed then to give him his space. There was no bigger bitch on this planet than a sick Puffer, and Grizzy was happy to let him handle things himself if that was what he wanted.
Boy did he regret that now.
See, it isn’t the locking of the door that’s driving Grizzy up the wall. It’s the fact that ever since Puffer did it, nobody in the house has seen him come out in days. Not to eat, not to shit, nothing. It’s like he doesn’t even live there.
Grizzy has found himself standing outside Puffer’s door more than once in the past few days. Debating whether to knock or not, if he’s being paranoid or reasonable in his worry, if he really wants to risk Puffer biting his head off for it. The last time he did it, Droid passed him with a knowing glance and a pat on the shoulder.
The cats aren’t happy. Calcifer scratches at Puffer’s door at least twice a day. Lila watches from a distance, looking like she’s considering joining in. They’ve been extra clingy too, climbing all over anyone they can reach. Yesterday, Cal barged into Grizzy’s room just to crawl up into his lap as he worked. He’s seen Pezzy walk around with Lila in his arms, speaking quietly to her in another language. The two of them tag-teamed Oso earlier today, jumping all over him like hyperactive kittens– Grizzy intervened with the cat toys, if only to give the poor dog a break.
Grizzy has played with the cats a lot recently. He’s not sure who he’s really trying to distract, them or himself.
Tell me you’re okay , he texted Puffer yesterday. He still hasn’t received a response.
Puffer hasn’t even come out to feed his cats– that responsibility has fallen to Pezzy. And that’s the straw that breaks the camel’s back. Puffer loves those little gremlins. He’d never neglect them, not of his own free will.
Enough is enough. Something is wrong.
“I’m breaking his fucking door down,” he says to Droid in the hallway.
“Thank fucking god,” Pezzy says from the living room. He’s lying on the couch with all three cats on top of him. Their combined purring is loud enough for Grizzy to hear even from a distance.
“First time I've ever been happy to hear you say that,” Droid adds. He scoots off to the side, clearing Grizzy’s path to the stairs. “Go get his ass.”
He’s at Puffer’s door in seconds. He knocks.
“Puffer. Open the door or I’m breaking it.”
He receives no response, not even the sound of movement within the room.
The lock rips itself out of the doorframe with one strong kick. The door flies open, swinging hard enough to hit the wall on the other side. Grizzy steps inside.
He doesn't see Puffer; the bed is empty. He’s not at his desk.
But there’s several dozen fish swimming around in the tank.
A wave of relief floods over Grizzy. He steps out into the hall to call out to the others: “Tank day.”
There’s a clamoring from below. Droid and Pezzy scramble up the stairs moments later.
“ That’s it?! ” Pezzy shouts. “Why didn’t he just fucking tell us ?”
“Guess that explains why he wasn’t answering his phone,” Droid says. He peeks past Grizzy to look at the tank. “How long do you think he’s been in there?”
“God knows at this point.” Grizzy checks his watch; it's about 11am. If they’re lucky, this’ll wrap itself up by the end of the day.
“So who wants first watch?”
The next six hours are fairly uneventful. The three of them take turns waiting in Puffer’s room, watching for any change. When his turn comes around, Grizzy brings his laptop and borrows Puffer’s desk so he can get some work done. His eyes occasionally flick over to the tank to check that all is well. The fish swim peacefully, rooting around in the rocks and chasing each other around the plants. Before long, Grizzy is doing a lot more fish-watching than actual work.
He’s gotten into fish identification recently. He bought a few books, did some reading in his free time. So he knows that the little blue fish that shine iridescent under the lights are blue rams, and the wedge-shaped black ones with a single long fin along their bellies are knife fish. There’s a couple salmon in there too, though they’re much smaller than they’d be in the wild. A few catfish root around in one of the aquatic plants together. Sunfish and perch scatter as a river eel snakes its way across the stones.
To anyone who didn’t know better, the fish would look pretty normal at first glance. Sure, there’s a lot of them, in a wide variety of sizes, but the tank is plenty big. Maybe it’s a bit odd that the bigger ones aren’t eating the little ones, but other than that they’re all doing normal fish activities. Pecking around for food, hiding in hollowed-out logs of driftwood, chasing their tankmates around for half a second before returning to whatever they were doing before.
But then you look a little closer, and you start noticing things.
Something spooks a knife fish and suddenly its organs are visible through skin as crystal clear as glass. It changes back a few seconds later, after fleeing between a plant’s swaying leaves. A two-headed salmon struggles to swim in a straight line; slowly its heads peel apart like the pages of a book, and one fish becomes two. The new fish has left one of its eyes behind on the other.
Grizzy watches an alligator gar drift lazily across the tank. Its gills flare unusually wide, beady eyes peeking out from within. Colorful gouramis flock together, skin changing like an octopus. Patterns ripple from one fish to another, as if they’re all part of the same canvas. The river eel yawns wide with a dozen mouths along its spine. A group of tiny fish changes species every few seconds; minnows one moment, darters the next.
Scales drift off the sides of a large, rough-looking pike, its sharp teeth flashing. As they fall, the scales shift and warp, sprouting tiny fins. The new, glassy little fishes reflect light like a prism; little rainbows scatter around the tank as dozens of them follow the pike like a trail of bubbles.
And then there’s the pufferfish. Its mottled brown scales are struck through with electric teal stripes that almost glow in their intensity. The other fish in the tank change day by day, but this one is a constant. Grizzy can’t help but smile as he watches the little thing bully two much larger trout into a corner. It’s barely six inches long, but the trout cower from it as if it were a full grown shark. Grizzy knows that Puffer isn’t conscious in this state, not really , but he’ll be damned if that little fish hasn’t inherited his personality nonetheless.
One hour into Grizzy’s shift, something changes. Slowly but surely, the fish begin to gather. One of the salmon swims alongside the pufferfish, mimicking its every move. A trout joins in a few minutes later. Grizzy looks away for a bit to focus on his work; by the time he looks back, the little cluster is twice as big with more fish joining by the minute. It doesn’t take long until every fish in the tank is swimming together. They move as one, a rippling wall of scales that swims in serpentine motions around the edges of the tank.
Grizzy pulls out his phone to send a quick text to the others. Schooling’s started. He receives a thumbs up from Droid, and a fish emoji from Pezzy that makes him snort.
The school drifts in slow circles around the tank. Their scales have begun to change colors like the gouramis had earlier; patterns and colors rolling from one fish to another. With each turn around the tank, they draw slightly closer together, until they’re pressed side to side.
That’s when they start to melt.
It’s not a pretty process, turning a hundred bodies into one. Flesh twists and warps; blood seeps out from between scales, spiraling in the water as it dissipates. Fish stretch and distort until they’re unrecognizable, only the eyes staying intact. Grizzy thinks he can see a hint of fear behind them.
He looks away just before the screaming starts.
There aren’t words for how horrible it is, to sit there with his eyes squeezed shut and try not to think about it. Water slaps violently against the glass as something thrashes and howls beneath the surface. Grizzy can hear bones crunching and rearranging, even from across the room. The sound makes his stomach turn. He’s squeezing his phone so tight that the edges are starting to bite into his skin. He drops the thing before he ends up breaking it. His other hand is probably going to leave some impressive bruises on his leg. He doesn’t let go; the pain is grounding.
Before the first tank day, Grizzy had never thought that fish could scream. Maybe that’s still true, for normal ones. But these are not normal fish, and their chorus of pain and suffering is the worst thing that he has ever heard.
A spray of water droplets hit his arm. The sound of tearing flesh meets his ears, followed closely by a shriek that sounds far too close to Puffer’s real voice. It takes every ounce of willpower Grizzy has to not open his eyes and lunge towards it. He’s crushing his own leg under his fingers.
Don’t look, he thinks, over and over. Just don’t look. It’ll be over soon.
It’s better if he doesn’t see it. The horror hiding just beneath Puffer's skin, that peeks through only in the chaos of transformation. They’ve all seen it, exactly once. The first tank day, before they knew what to expect. That damn screaming– they’d thought he was dying. To this day, they’ve never run so fast in their lives.
Grizzy vomited when he saw it. He handled it the best, by far. Droid blew out the power to the whole neighborhood, then promptly fainted. Pezzy fell apart almost instantly; by the time he managed to stumble out of the room, he had five more limbs than usual and the heads of three shrieking creatures were clawing their way to the surface.
Grizzy will never forget what he saw that day, not until the day he dies. He still gets nightmares about it. He’ll probably have one tonight.
After what feels like a thousand years, the screams die out. Grizzy waits a full thirty seconds before he looks, just to be safe.
A body floats limply in the water, a human torso that tapers off into a long tail lined with fins. It’s covered in scales, but skin is starting to spread gradually over the face and arms. Hundreds of glassy fish eyes trail up the sides of the neck and face like tear tracks, slowly migrating up and melting between barely cracked eyelids. Fins twitch, spines clicking together. Dark hair drifts in the current.
Grizzy waits as the marble-like eyes crawl steadily upwards like a line of ants. Puffer floats as eerily still as a corpse in a lake. Grizzy takes to watching the gills on his sides, letting their slight movements reassure him.
The last of the eyes slip into the sockets. Puffer’s eyelids slide closed, just for a moment. When they open, two sharp silver irises flick towards Grizzy.
“Hey, man,” Grizzy says. Puffer blinks slowly; it takes him a moment to move. Like a corpse waking from the grave, trying to remember how to live. The huge tail swishes once; Puffer drifts up to the top of the tank. Sluggishly, he raises his arms and pulls himself up to lean against the edge.
“Doing alright?” Grizzy asks. Puffer nods drowsily. “Good nap?”
A webbed hand lifts up and tilts in a so-so motion. Something pops in his shoulder as he does so; Grizzy suppresses a wince.
“You ready to come out?”
Puffer shakes his head. N-O-T Y-E-T, he signs. After the first tank day, Grizzy forced everyone in the house to learn the alphabet in sign language. Spelling everything out isn’t exactly quick, but it is helpful when Puffer can’t use his vocal chords yet.
“Alright. Let me know when you are, then.”
Puffer slides back down into the water. As he drifts towards the center of the tank, Grizzy opens up the groupchat again.
Grizzy : he’s back. Not ready to come out of the tank yet
6:29 PM
Pezzy : i’ll start cooking
6:30 PM
Grizzy glances back at the tank. Puffer’s curled up like a cat in the center, eyes closed, tail wrapped around himself. The scales have begun to recede down the sides of his neck, though a few still dust over his jaw and cheekbones. His arms look similar, scales fading gradually into skin. They’re dark blue today, with lighter blues and teals rippling in slow patterns down his sides.
Grizzy types out another quick text message.
Grizzy: might be a little while til he's out
6:32 PM
Pezzy : that's fine
6:32 PM
Grizzy gathers a few supplies while Puffer sleeps. A few towels of various sizes from the bathroom, one of which he spreads out on the tiles in front of the tank, and a bucket from under the sink. That and the remaining towels get placed off to the side. He digs through Puffer’s closet for some clothes, as well as a pair of swim trunks.
All that's left to do after that is wait. So he does.
Puffer sleeps for a bit over half an hour. Grizzy’s attention leaves his computer when he sees him shift out of the corner of his eye, fins spreading wide as he uncurls. They’re ridged with long, wickedly sharp spines, almost like a lionfish, and the tips poke out of the water as he stretches.
Puffer doesn’t come to the surface immediately. For a few minutes he swims slowly around the tank, picking dead leaves off of the plants. One of them floats near the surface, roots dangling; Puffer digs a small hole in the river stones and replants it. Then he spends a little time rearranging driftwood. Once everything is adjusted to his liking, he finally drifts up to the surface and props his arms on the edge of the tank.
“Ready?” Grizzy asks. Puffer makes a grabby motion in lieu of answering, spines clicking against the glass. Grizzy tosses him the swim trunks.
“Knock when you’re done,” he says, turning his back to the tank. There's a quiet splash as Puffer ducks back under the water. Grizzy tries not to shudder at the wet crunching sounds that follow, bones shifting and scraping beneath flesh. It seems to drag on forever. It has to hurt, it sure sounds like it does, even if he's not screaming for this part. Whenever Grizzy asks, Puffer dodges the question.
Finally it ends. Puffer knocks on the glass a moment later. Grizzy turns back around.
Puffer’s got legs now. With the swim trunks on, he almost looks like a regular guy going for a swim, if not for the patches of scales and fins that remain scattered over his body. Luckily for Grizzy, the spines are gone.
“Hold your breath,” Grizzy says. He reaches over the tank wall to grab Puffer under the arms and hauls him up out of the water with a grunt. Puffer helps a bit, bracing one hand on the tank’s edge to lift himself over the glass. Together they clear the wall and Grizzy puts him down on the towel. The moment he lets go, he grabs the bucket and rushes to put it in front of Puffer just as he begins retching. Water splatters against the bottom of the bucket. Puffer breaks into a hacking fit; Grizzy stays quiet by his side. He knows better than to touch him right now.
Puffer coughs hard, water spilling from his lips and leaking out of the gills on his sides. The gasping breaths he takes are wet and painful, but they’re gradually getting deeper as more of the water drains from his lungs. The fin along his spine shudders as the ones behind his ears press flat against the sides of his head.
Gradually, the coughing fit slows. Puffer leans over the bucket like a drunk clinging to a toilet. Each inhale still sounds wet and congested, like someone with a chest cold, but at least he’s breathing. Grizzy unfolds one of the towels and drapes it over his shoulders; Puffer barely acknowledges it. Grizzy gives him a little longer to catch his breath.
Finally, Puffer drags himself off the bucket. He squints around blearily for a moment, until Grizzy retrieves his glasses from the nightstand.
“Did you break my fuckin’ door?” is the first thing he says. His voice is hoarse, but not enough to hide the thick layer of irritation in his tone. Grizzy’s starting to feel the same way.
“ I’m sorry , you went radio silent for two days! What the hell else was I supposed to do?”
“How about wait a bit?”
“Motherfucker, we thought you were dead! The fuck you mean, wait? ”
The glare drops from Puffer’s face. “You thought I was dead? Why?”
Grizzy pinches the bridge of his nose. “Puffer, the last time we saw you, you were so sick you spent the whole day in bed. Then no one hears from you, or even sees you for days.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah, oh. Dumbass.”
“Shut up.” Puffer leans on the bucket with a huff.
“Nah, not a chance. You earned this lecture, you’re gonna sit there and fuckin’ take it. Why the hell didn’t you just tell us it was a tank day?”
“I didn't mean to,” Puffer grumbles into the bucket, voice echoing.
“What, you didn't mean to lock your door? Bullshit.”
“I mean it wasn't supposed to be a tank day, dickhead. Wouldn't have locked it if I knew that.”
“Oh.” Grizzy pauses to take that in. “So what happened, then?”
“Being sick probably triggered it. Body decided it was done being human.” Puffer pulls the towel halfway off his shoulders, scrubbing at his wet hair. Grizzy watches as the now-uncovered gills between his ribs gradually seal shut and fade away. The scars around them remain.
Puffer has a lot of scars, all over his torso. He doesn’t go out of his way to hide them, more than willing to go shirtless on occasion, but nobody who’s asked has ever gotten an explanation.
“Long story. Very bad. Not gonna talk about it,” he says each time. That tends to kill the conversation pretty quick. But Grizzy can’t help but wonder. They stand out starkly against his skin; whatever wounds they came from must have healed poorly.
Pezzy has never asked. He glances away whenever someone else does. Of the three of them, Pezzy was the first to meet Puffer; Grizzy gets the feeling he knows something that the rest of them don’t.
Grizzy looks away before Puffer can catch him staring.
“Are you still sick?” he asks. Puffer pauses to think.
“Don’t think so.”
Grizzy reaches towards his forehead. Puffer smacks his hand away.
“Stop fuckin’ mothering me.”
“Wouldn’t have to if you stopped pulling stupid shit like this.”
“WOuLd’Nt HaVe To iF yOu sToPpEd,” Puffer mimics in a less than flattering tone. Grizzy rolls his eyes. Asshole.
“Want to head downstairs? Pezzy’s cooking, and your cats probably want to see you.”
“Oh shit , the cats–” Puffer scrambles unsteadily to his feet.
“Relax, they’re fine. Pezzy’s been feeding them.”
“Oh.” Puffer pauses awkwardly. “Good. I should buy him lunch.” He bends down to grab the rest of the towels and the pile of clothes Grizzy collected earlier.
“I'll be out in five, meet you downstairs,” he says, heading for the bathroom. Grizzy nods and takes his cue to leave.
When he walks into the kitchen, Grizzy sees Pezzy at the stove stirring a pot. Droid has draped himself over his back, chin resting on top of his head.
“You’re the worst assistant chef ever,” Pezzy says.
“There’s nothing left for me to do!” Droid protests.
“Doesn’t mean you have to hinder me now. Get off!”
“But I’m cooold .”
“Get a jacket, you big baby.”
Droid pouts. “You’re so mean to me.” He finally spots Grizzy. “Look how mean he’s being, Grizzy. I did nothing to deserve this.”
“Let the man cook,” Grizzy replies amusedly. Droid detaches himself from Pezzy with a dramatic sigh.
“You're both conspiring against me.”
“You’ll get over it,” Pezzy says. He glances in Grizzy’s direction. “All good on your end?”
“Yeah, he’s alright. He’ll be down in a minute.”
Pezzy hums in acknowledgement. “Soup’s almost done.”
“You missed it Grizzy, I was like his unpaid intern,” Droid says, “Verbal abuse and all–”
“Well maybe if you just followed the recipe like I told you to–” Pezzy interrupts.
“It's soup ! The recipe is a suggestion!”
“I’ve held onto this recipe since 1918, we’re following it!”
“You're so old,” Grizzy says.
“Shut up or you’re not getting any.” Pezzy brandishes a wooden spoon at him.
Out of the corner of his eye, Grizzy spots two little balls of fur shooting up the stairs like rockets. Moments later, Puffer’s voice floats down.
“Ow, fuck– get off!” The sound of scuffling follows. Grizzy contains his reaction to a snort; Pezzy starts openly cackling.
The noise quiets down. Soon after, Puffer descends the stairs with a cat in each arm, both of them purring like motorboats. His left eye has returned to its normal brown; the color is just starting to bleed back into the right.
“My legs are shredded,” he complains. “They tried to climb me like a damn tree.”
“You deserve it,” Pezzy replies. “We had an agreement, you’re supposed to tell us before this shit happens! The fuck were you thinking?”
Puffer puts his hands up, though only slightly. He can't raise his arms much when they're full of two clingy cats. “Can’t a guy lock his door every once in a while?”
“Not on a tank day, you bitch!”
“Wow, didn’t know you hated privacy so much.”
Grizzy decides to intervene before Pezzy’s head explodes. “In his defense, he didn’t see it coming. Being sick triggered it.”
“Oh.” Pezzy visibly calms, before whirling on Puffer again. “Why didn’t you lead with that?”
“Wanted to see if steam would start coming out of your ears.”
“You motherfucker–” Pezzy hurls an oven mitt at him. It smacks Puffer square in the face, hands too full of his cats to catch it.
“You look kinda terrible, man,” Droid speaks up. He’s right; now that Grizzy’s paying attention, he can see the slight paleness to Puffer's face and the tremors in his legs.
“Yeah, yeah. Haven’t eaten in a bit. Speaking of– whatcha cookin?” He peers over Pezzy’s shoulder.
“Vichyssoise.”
“What the hell did you just say to me?”
Pezzy rolls his eyes. “Leek and potato soup. Move, you're gonna get cat hair in the pot.”
Puffer retreats to lean against the counter; Droid joins him there.
“So just to be clear, you’re never doing that again, right?”
“What, locking my door?”
Droid shoots him a dry look. “Not for two full days , brother. Seriously, we were freaking out.”
The light mood fades as the kitchen falls silent. Calcifer meows; he and Lila are still clinging to their dad like baby monkeys. Puffer’s fins flick; he has the decency to look ashamed.
“Sorry,” he grumbles.
“We’re not saying never lock it. Just maybe not when you’re sick,” Grizzy says.
“Or just stay downstairs so we can keep an eye on you,” Droid suggests.
“You’re all a bunch of mother hens.”
“Say yes or you don’t get any soup,” Pezzy orders. Puffer makes a big show out of thinking about it, taking his sweet time to answer, but Grizzy already knows his mind is made up. He knows better than to miss out on Pezzy’s cooking.
“Alright, fine. But you have to fix my door first.” That last part is aimed towards Grizzy.
“Fair enough,” he replies.
The stove clicks as Pezzy switches it off. He gives the pot one final stir, then puts the wooden spoon in the sink and fishes a ladle out of the drawer. “Everyone get a bowl, soup’s done.”
The kitchen fills with the sounds of clattering dishes and chairs scraping against the floor. The four of them settle at the table; Oso sneaks under it and takes turns putting his head on each of their laps to beg for food.
The soup is really good. Pezzy hasn’t made this one for them before, but that’s not really surprising. He’s got a whole library’s worth of recipes in that head of his; it’d probably take decades to get through them all. Grizzy looks around the table as he eats, watching as Puffer and Pezzy start bickering again.
“It’s not a fucking Great Depression recipe!” Pezzy says. “That was over a decade later!”
“Old ass bitch,” Puffer replies.
“You’re one to talk. You were around in the thirties too, weren’t you?”
“I was in a river back then. That doesn’t count.”
“What do you mean it doesn’t count–”
Droid scratches Oso behind the ears. Calcifer hops up on the table and lunges for Puffer’s bowl, earning a loud “ Hell no , get down!” from him.
Outside, it's a chilly winter night, the sky dark. Here, surrounded by his dumbass friends and their one million pets, all Grizzy can feel is warmth.
He wouldn’t trade it for the world.