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“What are you doing out here, all by yourself?”
Timon was sitting on a soft patch of grass on the riverbank. The rolling river was like orange crystal, jungle water pooling beneath the falls. Outside Timon's peaceful eddy, the pool was blacker and deeper than the sky, pigmented by the fallen leaves from the dark jungle trees overhead. It smelled of rich earth, nighttime, and, faintly, of warthog.
“Are you alright?” Pumbaa asked again, in a lower register this time, more serious than the first. He took a step towards Timon.
“Timon?”
“Pumbaa.” Timon finally replied, turning his body more towards the water, his face a familiar mask of cool nonchalance. “I’m fine, thanks for asking.” He smiled, baring his canines as if they were fangs threaded with venom. Not a smile necessarily meant for Pumbaa, but the poor warthog fell into Timon’s line of fire, an incident unfortunately common throughout their relationship. Far too common.
The way that Pumbaa looked at him made his heart stutter. Timon’s biting sarcasm had done nothing but worry the warthog, and now Pumbaa quietly walked over and layed down on a dry piece of the riverbank near him.
They sat in silence for a few moments.
“Why are you out here and not in bed?”
“Because I wanted to be alone.” Timon turned farther away from Pumbaa, his expression sour. There was a pause. Timon took a deep breath and sighed. Still facing away, he amended. “I love you.”
“Love you too.”
The only person in the world who couldn't turn away was sitting right next to him, watching even as he wallowed.
Timon’s life had held four loves. Here was one. The only one that had never left him, the only one that had never allowed Timon to pull away.
Timon had left his own Ma, when she was the only foundation he had. His feet had been yanked from beneath him, and he tumbled down, and down, until he crashed into Pumbaa. That was the second person who loved him, who accepted him for who he was. That pig had latched on and hadn't let go, even when he probably should have.
Then the two of them had found a lonely little lion cub, nearly dead from exhaustion and dehydration. And that was the third, and then the fourth, a clingy little honey badger. Now the Simba lived in Pride Rock, a king over the savannah. And Bunga was gone now, too. Gone to the Tree of Life, to heal Kion and Ono. With his best friends, who Timon was forever in debt to, for saving the kid’s life countless times over.
But still, he missed them. Simba had so much to deal with, even now that Scar’s war was over. He was grown up and matured. Timon missed his kid, missed watching him grow up. He missed Bunga, too. But he was ashamed to say that this pining for the past had started before Bunga even left. Timon wanted his kids back. He wanted them back so, so badly. And he hated Scar for taking them away from him.
Bunga had been put through so much, even more than Simba. What had happened to Kion and Ono could have happened to his baby. It would have happened to him if not for Ono. That thought made Timon feel worse.
Timon choked, that hatred and anger and sentimentality welling up in his eyes, and forming a hard lump in his throat. and Pumbaa reacted immediately. He moved closer, a hoof close behind Timon but not touching. And Timon crumpled.
He shoved his body back into Pumbaa and sobbed. The tears fell, hot and angry, leaving his eyes stinging. He wiped his face quickly and roughly, achieving nothing but spreading the dampness further into his fur as more tears came to take their place. He was shaking against the warthog’s steadiness. Pumbaa moved his head down, practically wrapping Timon in a warm hug, taking away the whole world around them as he cried.