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Boris hadn't been able to sleep. Hell, most of his nights lately had been so restless, he was questioning whether or not he had gone insane. He certainly felt insane and more than a little exhausted. Now that Bendy had sealed the deal with Cuphead, the Cupbros and B-Bros were forced to be together. Constantly. It was tense—and more than a little awkward. Boris wasn't one for socialization, especially not on a night like tonight.
After the four of them had explored the abandoned railway and had had one too many close encounters with those haunting, soulless ink creatures, they had found a place to rest. It was a small room at the end of the hall, a run-down shelter in the abandoned train station. The place smelled moist somehow. Boris noticed first, his nose twitching every other second as a new, gross smell hit the back of his throat.
“What a mess…” Mugman grumbled first. Cuphead’s ghostly form filled the dark space with a blue light—allowing everyone the sight they needed. He floated over to an arranged pile of rubble shaped like a nook. Pillars of concrete and mysterious metal sheets leaned against the wall, with one old t-shirt on the ground where someone might sleep. “Hey, Mugs,” the ghost called out. “You think any squatters are hanging round here?”
“I doubt it,” Mugman muttered. He seemed frustrated—hell, exhausted. Boris couldn't blame him. His eyes were sunken in and bloodshot, and his shoulders sagged like a physical weight was pressed on them. Bendy then followed, close behind the other three. The map in his back pocket pulsed rhythmically with a golden glow, resembling a firefly. “Heyy,” the ink demon panted. “Just… checked the perimeter. Nothing’s following. I think. I hope,” he finished, leaning forward with his hands on his knees.
“If the rest of you die tonight, we know who to blame.” Cuphead chuckled carelessly. He leaned backwards until he was seated, resting against the pillars. His arms crossed, his eyes closed, his shoulders dropped. Boris perked an ear unconsciously, confused. Never in his years would he guess a ghost could fall asleep so easily. Mugman must have caught his look, scoffing as he caught sight of Boris’s dog-like reaction. “Alright…” Bendy broke the silence, stretching his arms tall above his head. His swishing tail brushed Boris’s leg. Boris snapped to attention, returning from the zone-out about ghostly sleep schedules.
“I say I take the little nook, and… the rest of you can figure it out!” Bendy teased, shivering as the stretch ran through his body. Boris reached his hand out to grip the demon’s shoulders, but before he could, Bendy had already dashed forward, almost diving towards the triangle-shaped crevice. “Bendy—! for… heaven’s sake…” Boris grumbled, his shoulders dropping further in defeat as he realized the hideout was only big enough for the ink demon. He and Mugman shared a look, mutually astonished by their brother’s audacities.
For a moment, Boris wanted to pry Bendy out of the shelter and take his place—to make his brother sleep in the chilly air of the underground instead. Who was he kidding? The reality where he would do that was far, far away. Boris finally stepped past Mugman. He settled into the corner furthest from the exit, not too far away from the makeshift concrete tent. The tile floor was cold, even through his clothes. He shivered, trying to ignore the way his teeth clattered as the night’s chill settled into the train station. Boris gathered himself into a ball, his knees drawn up tight to his chest.
Mugman took a long breath, fastening Cuphead’s jacket around him tightly. Boris watched out of the corner of his eye as Mugman took hesitant steps forward before sliding down the wall next to him. By ‘next to him,’ it really meant that there were 3 feet between the two, but that was enough to remind Boris of their proximity. There was a long moment of silence that neither of them broke. Nothing but the sound of distant whistling wind and the sound of hollow concrete rooms. 10 of the slowest minutes of Boris’s life passed like that.
Eventually, Mugman got bored with pretending to fall asleep. His eyes opened slowly, his pupils dilated to take in the darkness of the room. Glancing over to Boris, he watched as the wolf sat so contentedly. His tail even flicked behind him every so often. Mugman pushed the thoughts about such a thing being adorable to the deepest crevices of his mind. “…hey,” Mugman whispered and watched one of Boris’s ears perk up as it caught the sound.
Boris opened his eyes, blinking slowly as he caught Mugman’s gaze. He immediately averted eye contact, settling for pretending the floor was the most interesting thing in the world. Boris repeated a “….hey,” as he traced his jean pocket with one finger. There was a silence between them again, but this time, it wasn't quite as awkward. The events of the night washed over them instead. Images of Cuphead’s shattered body flashed behind Mugman’s eyes, and the horrifying ink monsters flashed behind Boris’s.
Eventually, Mugman decided to speak up again with a small sigh. “… thanks,” he started. He thought of the way that Boris had carried him through the forest, getting lost in his thinking for a moment. “….for helping me back there,” he eventually finished. He ran a hand over the back of his neck, listening to the sounds of Boris tapping his fingers against his knees. “Don't mention it. It… wasn't any problem at all,” Boris replied. He tried his best to help it, but his tail swished behind him rapidly at the praise.
Mugman really, really shouldn't stare. Manners 101 and all that. But gods help him, it was quickly becoming a very guilty pleasure of his to keep an eye on that fluffy tail. Mugman unconsciously shifted a little closer, which made Boris fully turn his head towards him. Once Mugman caught his gaze, he extended his nearest hand with his pinky out. “….truce?” Mugman offered. Boris’s ears perked up, his eyebrows raising in surprise. That surprise quickly turned to suspicion, though.
“Truce?” Boris repeated, squinting as he tried to scan Mugman’s face for any sign of deception. When he found none, he was still hesitant. Doubtful as he was, his hand still slowly raised. One pinky stuck out to wrap around Mugman’s. “You still don't trust me, huh?” Mugman questioned, and Boris shifted closer so his arm wasn't sticking out so awkwardly. They had maybe half a foot between them—a far contrast to the great, very awkward distance before.
“Well—oh…. It’s… it’s not that…” Boris stumbled over his words. His pinky tightened around Mugman’s for a moment before letting go. Though, his hand remained hovering in the air. Boris was about to give up on continuing, but Mugman nodded. He could keep going. Keep talking. They both liked the sound of the other’s voice anyway. “I’m… I’m sorry.” Boris muttered. His awkwardly hovering hand returned to his knees.
“You don't have to apologize,” Mugman assured, shifting just a smidge closer. The curled-up Boris was the equivalent of a heater in the chill of this room—Mugman couldn't resist the urge to gravitate to him. Boris seemed to notice. “Just… try and be patient with me,” Boris whispered. “I’m not quite as charming as Bendy.” He said. Boris had tried for some self-deprecation, but it just came out… sad.
“Well, maybe so, but…” Mugman started. He blinked slowly once, twice, and before he realized it, his head was gently leaning against Boris’s shoulder. “Truces don't care much about charm, I think.” Mugman yawned. Boris’s shoulders felt tenser than stones. He could feel the heat in his cheeks and could almost hear Bendy’s teasing ‘ooooh’ ring out in his ears. This was too close—hell, it was a little overwhelming.
Boris tried his best to loosen his shoulders, but his heartbeat was faster than a mouse’s. Meanwhile, unaware of Boris’s near panic attack, the tired mug crossed his arms. Much like his brother. If he had been fully alert, he would never have even considered this. But… Boris’s warmth was so nice; the muscles of his shoulder were a surprisingly good pillow. Mugman quickly drifted off to sleep.
Boris’s mind spiraled in hundreds of directions. He wanted to shake Mugman off, but he also wanted to pull him closer—wanted to yell and wanted to say the sweetest things. He was exhausted, yet so awake. He pressed himself against the wall, the sensation pulling him back to reality. “Damn…” He cursed half-heartedly. Boris closed his eyes, knowing that he wouldn't be able to catch any sleep.
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Just as Boris had expected, he had spent that entire night doing nothing but thinking. About that night in the forest, his brother, Felix, and Sheba, nothing was spared. Every so often, when he got tired of the routine, he would tune in to the sound of Mugman’s deep, soft breathing. A pleasant sound. Sometime in the dead hours of the night, after Mugman had been asleep for an hour or two, this pleasant sound began to change.
The consistent rhythm of breaths picked up in pace, Mugman’s shoulders tensed, and so often he would mumble and shiver violently. A nightmare. But Boris couldn't get himself to shake him awake. He was stuck there, forced by his own mind to watch his new friend go through the tortures of his mind. Mugman begged for something incoherent under his breath, leaning further into Boris’s shoulder. With a shiver, his eyes suddenly opened wide, his breath pausing completely. “…mh,” Mugman muttered, wrapping his arms tightly around himself. He drew back from Boris’s shoulder, holding his breath. Boris looked around—at the sleeping forms of Bendy and Cuphead, at his hands, and at his miserable friend once again.
Mugman could feel the darkness creeping into his vision again. Dark tendrils of his own subconscious threatened to wrap around his body and swallow him whole. He could see Cuphead’s shattered face so clearly in front of him. He could almost reach out and touch it—drag his finger along the sharp edges of the deep gouge in his brother’s skull. He could see and feel everything that he shouldn't have been able to—a nightmare that hadn't ended even after he had woken up.
Boris should do something. He needed to do something. Mugman had forgiven him for the events that had led up to Cuphead’s… situation. The least that he could do was…
Boris bit the bullet and allowed his hand to come forward. His large palm covered Mugman’s shoulder and drifted in between his shoulder blades in a soothing movement. Boris wasn't good at this, and he couldn't even pretend to be. His hand went slowly up and down Mugman’s spine, and the sound of his palm rubbing against the fabric of his shirt filled the air. Slowly, Mugman started to feel real again. The tendrils of pitch-black ink that threatened to drown him before sank to the ground until they dissipated.
The mug let out the breath he had been holding, though his eyes stayed glued to the ground. “…” he stayed silent. And Boris didn't need him to talk. “I…” Boris started instead, “Don’t… blame you. For being shaken up,” he said. “Shit, I haven't been able to close my eyes.”
That was what managed to pry a smile out of the shaken-up Mugman. After a while, he looked over to Boris, his eyebags deep and his gaze just slightly vacant. “… I was… worried I had woken you up.”
Mugman looked at Boris. Boris looked at Mugman. For many, many seconds too long. Mugman felt the heat from Boris’s arm seep into his bones, and he was close enough to smell him. That irony tang of blood. That musky, dog-like scent. Mugman didn't even notice he was staring at his lips—he didn't realize he had honed in on that small scar on Boris's bottom lip.
What he did realize was that Boris was staring too.
He wasn't thinking straight. Kissing him wouldn't be right—would it? They had only known each other for so long; it would be an improper thing of pure impulse—incredibly unbecoming of one of the Collectors. But god, maybe he—
Snapping them both out of the moment swifter than a hare, Bendy then snored quite loudly from his nook, mumbling something incoherent before settling into a deep sleep again.
The two of them sprang apart after that like teenagers. Boris’s hand retracted from Mugman’s back as if burned, and the two of them seemed very intent on staring at the ground. That split second of desire hung between them heavily. That diminished feeling made itself known by spreading up Boris’s cheeks—which were probably now redder than Cuphead’s nose. Boris ran his hand along the soft fur on his neck, though it did little to soothe him. There was a couple of seconds of awkward silence, where neither of them wanted to admit that… well.
“… Bendy … has always been something of a sleep talker,” Boris muttered. Mugman amused him with a soft ‘yeah?’. As hard as he tried to look away—to keep his head down and wallow in the embarrassment—he couldn't. Mugman slowly turned his head, and as he looked down, Boris’s tail was wagging faster than it ever had before. Maybe it was uncontrollable? Mugman thought. Maybe it was just instinct. Like how he tugged on his scarf whenever he was nervous. Boris turned slowly, growing more and more aware (and dreadful) of the blaring symbol of how he was feeling.
“…sorry.” Boris apologized. He gripped the end of his tail, shoving it underneath him. “You apologize a lot,” the mug observed with a gentle chuckle. His quip caught Boris’s attention, and finally, the wolf turned to face the reason for the storm in his heart. “Well…. Sorry about that, too,” he muttered. It was the first time in a while he’d seen someone (who wasn't Bendy) laugh genuinely. It felt… good. Mugman didn't look half bad when he laughed too—a chipped tooth being exposed as he snickered.
Mugman looked at Boris, and Boris looked back. Again. That same thrill of desire. That same staring at lips that both of them tried and failed to keep from being obvious.
Screw it, Boris thought. In the words of Bendy, he should… live a little for once.
He shut his eyes tight and surged closer before he could second-guess himself for the last time. His snout pressed against Mugman’s nose awkwardly for a moment before their lips finally, blessedly met. Mugman felt a shiver go down his spine, his eyes instinctively shutting. The kiss was soft and gentle. More of a question of ‘Is this okay?’ rather than carnal desire. Mugman sighed, his hands coming to rest on Boris’s shoulders. They slid up his collarbones, up his neck, and came to cup his face with the gentlest touch Boris had ever known.
As soon as it started, Boris pulled away. He could hear his heart pounding in his ears and almost missed Mugman’s question. “So…. how... how was that?” Mugman had asked. The question hung in the air for a moment before Mugman leaned forward, their noses tapping together softly. “…good. Was… was… good. Really… nice.” Boris stammered. He couldn't form a coherent thought right now, let alone a sentence. He felt like a cartoon character whose eyes had turned to spirals, whose face was steaming due to the heat in their face.
Mugman was much the same, with a goofy smile he couldn't help and some mildly shaking hands. This was certainly a unique way to cheer him up from a horrifying nightmare, he thought. Maybe he would come to regret this in the morning. Maybe he would never be able to look at Boris the same way ever again. Hell, he already couldn't look Boris in the eye.
This time, Mugman was the one who closed the distance between them. This sight—the two of them kissing so softly in the midst of that chaos of finding the ink machine—was something Mugman would have scoffed at. But now, all he could focus on was the feeling of another’s lips against his. Boris seemed more confident this time around, cupping Mugman’s porcelain face as the kiss slowly deepened.
Boris’s hands finally found a place he was satisfied with, dragging up the underside of Mugman’s thighs. Mugman hummed in surprise but only leaned closer. He turned his body completely towards Boris, his fingers threading through the thick fur along Boris’s neck. Mugman positioned himself on his knees, each knee on either side of Boris’s thighs. All the bullshit of that night, the expectations that had been placed heavily upon his shoulders, the exhaustion that was catching up to him—it was all prevalent in the way that Boris kissed. Sharp, desperate, and a tad too fast. Mugman didn't care. Boris didn't care either.
Air, unfortunately, was necessary for survival. Mugman pulled back just enough to breathe, a delicate string of saliva still connecting them. For a long moment, there was nothing but heavy breathing. Mugman’s thumbs slowly went back and forth in circles. Boris forgot how to breathe for a minute straight.
“….damn.” Boris said after a long while. He couldn't decide whether or not he regretted it, but right now, all he wanted to do was hide himself in a hole for a week straight.
Too close. Too much. Too many bodies. They’d just met; what was he thinking…?
Mugman, at least on the outside, was the composed one of the two. His open palms slid from shoulders to the planes of Boris’s chest, but that was crossing a boundary he didn't even want to name. Mugman offered a smile as he positioned himself back beside Boris, sitting against the wall with his legs crossed again. He reached his hand out, his pinky wrapping around Boris’s. The gesture that started all of this was going to end it.
Mugman leaned against Boris’s shoulder. It came easier this time. “Try to get some sleep,” he said.
And this time, Boris wasn't nearly as tense. He rolled his shoulders and tilted his head back until it tapped against the wall. “No promises,” he mumbled. Mugman looked like he couldn't care less, given his breath had already begun to even out. Maybe this search for the ink machine wouldn't be as lonely as Boris thought it would be.
This whole ordeal was for future Boris to deal with. Right now, Boris could enjoy the electric tingle of kissing another.