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Jim’s eyes landed on the single bed before flicking back to his apparent roommate. Curly stood beside him - less than an arm’s length away - with an uncertain smile tugging up at his lips.
It seemed neither of them saw this coming.
Except, shouldn’t it have been obvious? The Tulpar had only ever hosted enough for four people. Adding a sudden fifth threw a wrench into the entire operation. Worse yet, Pony Express had no interest in even addressing the issue. They’d shoved an intern at them like he was some unwanted orphan and they were the best parents available.
“It’s not too bad,” Curly remarked. His hands were on his hips as though he was taking in a project he’d just completed and Jim’s mind sprinted away with the possibility.
What would it have been like had Curly opted for a construction gig? How toned would his muscles have become with the excessive use? Would he have taken his shirt off because the sun caressed him in a claustrophobic embrace?
“It’ll almost be like old times, yeah?” His friend continued, and here he was again, nothing more than a captain for a space freighter.
Jim wasn’t disappointed in that, was he?
No. He couldn’t be.
There was no reason to be.
He refocused his attention on the single bed. It was tiny with stiff sheets and a pitiful blanket that even a seasoned prisoner would find offensive. Even wrose, the mattress wasn’t much better as it generally mistook itself for a slab of concrete.
There could be the impossible hope that Pony Express refurbished the sleeping quarters, but Jim wasn’t confident that this time would be any different. They’d more than likely have to rely on crippling exhaustion to lull them all to sleep again.
As if to test the theory, Curly approached the bed and plummeted onto it with a mixture of familiar fondness and blind trust. Miserable as the bed was, it stood firm under his weight.
At least it had that much going for it.
Curly patted the bed then and instinct to heed his best friend’s call had Jimmy taking a step toward him. The possibility of being seen as nothing more than a mere dog, however, had fury pressing invisible fingers against his throat.
He picked up the pace, closing the distance in a matter of seconds, and sat beside the man who’d always been his reason to breathe.
To keep moving.
To keep living.
There, Curly offered Jim a smile that crystalized his rage and shattered it, as though it was a ruthless dragon and Curly was a powerful frost mage.
What did that make Jimmy himself though? The monster terrorizing the village or the damsel?
Or was he somehow both?
“Pretty sure old times had better beds,” Jim remarked as he patted the firm mattress himself. The gesture almost felt like a magic spell - a charm made to dispel a curse that so cruelly wrapped its hands around his neck.
He didn’t feel like a dog anymore; he felt more like the child who’d always sought his friend out.
He felt like he could breathe.
“Your room always did have some pretty cool stuff in it,” Jimmy continued, and despite the bright smile that painted an intoxicating cheer along Curly’s face, he knew the truth. Jim’s room and home had far better trinkets than anyone else’s in their old town - effortlessly morphing it into a paradise for kids.
No one ever understood why they always went to Curly’s place.
Before Jimmy knew what he was doing, his hand had moved from its place against the rough blankets to Curly’s thigh. There, his fingers closed around his friend, clinging to him with adoration, desperation, and starvation. As if to further feed the monster that curled behind Jim’s ribcage, Curly’s muscles tightened at the touch and his eyes shone with a pleading desire that matched Jimmy’s own.