Burning. Is what it was.

A burning.

And as soon as he was out the door ... as soon as he was clear (from the eyes of others, and from the judgment of others), he let loose.

He cried.

Field, shaking and twitching ... made it to his car, fumbled with his keys, and unlocked the door. Nose and whiskers twitching. Ears going ... swivel-swivel.

And paw going ... throb-throb.

It hurt so bad. Oh, it hurt so bad. His left paw ... burned. On the food line. At work. 180 degrees. And it felt like it was still on fire. Two hours later. And ... how he wanted to be anywhere (safe).

And the mouse sank into the driver's seat. In the dark. He sat there and sobbed, squeaking with each inhale ... chittering with each movement of his left paw.

He had brought a carry-out cup (Styrofoam) of ice water ... for this purpose. For the purpose of dipping his injured paw into the water (the cup between his thighs). And he heaved, heaved for breath. Chittered with each inhale, and ...

... put the key in the ignition. Turned it on. The car. Turned it on.

High beams.

Switch to low beams.

Trembling out and in.

Where to go? Where ...

"Ouch, ouch, ouch," he whispered. A frantic exclamation. Rising. A rising.

The tension.

The fear.

To drive home would take half an hour. And driving home with one paw ... at night. And driving home with tears clouding his eyes, hardly able to see (even with his new glasses). No. No, he couldn't. He couldn't do it. Wouldn't make it. And if he went home ... they would tell him to take some pills. They would see him crying. They would see him weak.

He didn't trust his family enough ... to be this vulnerable in front of them.

He didn't trust them to see him in pain.

His mate.

His mate ... was eight minutes away, maybe, if he ... drove fast enough. With the light traffic of the eight-o'clock hour. His mate.

"I want my mate," the mouse cried, squeaking out. Chittering. "I want my mate," he sobbed. To himself. In the darkness, in the chill of the car. Trembling from the cold. And from the heat of his paw. The searing, the burning of his paw.

He plunged the paw back into the cup of water, and he drove ... shakily, he drove, and he nearly missed a stop sign. And he shook. And he went forward.

I always go to pieces.

He prayed. As he went, he prayed, and the pain throbbed in his paw. His fingers being eaten alive by some kind of twisted, hellish heat ... the fur and skin burned away for scar and blister, devoid of any sort of moisture. Dry. Raspy.

"Dear God, make it stop ... make it stop, please ... please, let him ... let him be there. Please, please," the mouse begged, beside himself, close to hyper-ventilating.

The pain.

It wasn't ... a worded sort. It was ... fierce. Sharp. Horrible.

And the mouse cried.

In one part of his mind ... mad at his work for not letting him go after getting burned. Making him stay and work for two more hours. Making him suffer.

Mad at himself ... for being so careless as to get burned in the first place.

And mad at no one, for ... accidents happened.

And he had already forgiven. Already pardoned. Being pardoned in return.

It has happened. That was ... all there was to it.

It had happened.

And he was dealing with it.

You see how I go to pieces, that I'm lying on the ground.

Where was he?

"Where ... where am I," he breathed to himself. Having passed through a section of lights. Not remembering going through them. Wondering if he had gone through them ... while they were green or red. Not knowing.

College.

Still on College Avenue.

Damn the construction on Westfield Boulevard. He would've been there by now ... if not for that. If not for ... they were always doing construction. Maybe if they built the roads right the first time, they wouldn't have to upkeep them every other month.

96th Street.

100 streets from his home.

The mouse lived a mile from 196th Street.

His mate lived off 96th.

Their lives were separated by 100 streets.

And, right now, right ... here. He was on that street.

And was praying, was desperate ... for him to be there.

"Please, be home. Please ... please, be home," the mouse sobbed. His voice cracked and broken. From the pain. From the tears. From the emotion.

Overwhelmed.

He needed it to stop. He needed the pain to stop. His paw ...

"My paw," he shivered. "My ... my paw."

He needed comfort. He needed ...

" ... my mate, my mate," he said. Swallowed. Coughing. Coughing again. Having cried himself into coughing, and nearly throwing up.

He shook as he held his breath, taking his paw out of the water to help turn the steering wheel. Wincing as the severe second-degree burns ... ate away at any will he had. His mouth squeezed shut. Almost squeezing his eyes shut, too, in response, but remembering ... that he was driving. And he couldn't do that.

So, he plunged his paw back into the water, and ...

... he was there.

He got out of the car, nearly shutting his thin, silky tail ... pink, bare, slithering ... nearly shutting it in the car door. Fur on cheeks matted. Whiskers waggling, drooping. Twitching. Nose sniffing.

Squeaking.

Mousey tics. Mousey movement.

Mousey motion.

And he knocked on his mate's door, and ... on instinct, began to clean his whiskers, smoothing them back with both paws, licking the paws, smoothing the whiskers, cleaning his face ... as mouses do.

But had to stop.

He couldn't use that left paw. And, removed from the water, it throbbed. It seared, and ...

... the mouse reached for the handle. Turned it, and ...

... poked his head inside. Sniffed the air.

He was there.

In the other room.

And Field, voice broken, couldn't speak. He simply knocked with his good paw, his breathing labored. And he knocked again, opened the door fully.

And the mouse slipped inside the lion's home.

And he stood there for a moment, just inside the door. Breathing, and ... he saw his mate, who blinked a bit, stood (from his chair near the computer), and came toward him. Saw his state. Asked ...

" ... honey, what's wrong?"

Field opened his mouth. Faltered. Opened it again. Held out his paw ... which was trembling. "I ... I, uh, I ... burned ... burned my paw, and it ... hurts ... so ... bad, I ... I didn't know where else ... to go," he said, and ... could say no more. For he lost it, and was in tears again. Shaking, clutching at his mate's side with his good paw.

"Oh, God," his mate breathed, seeing the paw. "Sit down," he instructed, nodding toward the couch, and hurrying to the kitchen area.

Field shook, making it to the couch. Sitting on the extreme right side, next to the arm. Still in his work clothes. Still wearing a tie.

Damn tie.

He fumbled with it ... trying to take it off. Failed.

And his mate brought back a bowl filled with ice water, set it on the TV tray in front of the mouse, and ...

... Field, shaking, plunged his paw in.

The relief!

Long enough to allow him to recover. To allow him to catch his breath. Though he still cried, and ... he still shook. As he explained to his mate what had happened.

As Fuzzy listened.

As ... words, sobs ...

Sounds.

Fuzzy going to his computer to search for burn information. On treatment.
Field sitting alone on the couch and trembling, paw plunged into icy water. Cold. So cold. But it neutralized the heat. It was so much better than the heat.

Fuzzy returned ...

... and sat next to Field, whispering things to him.

Trying to get him to calm down. Running a paw up and down his thigh. On his arms. Slowly, softly. Trying to soothe him. Telling him to calm down.

Field quietly cried. Hating himself, at once, for being so weak ... for being such a baby. But also knowing ... how emotional he was. And how his mate knew that. And how the tears were ... it was release.

The mouse needed release.

Fuzzy was the only one in the world ... that Field would cry in front of. Cry in the presence of.

It was trust.

It was love.

And Field wished he could be as brave as Fuzzy always seemed to be.

"Honey, calm down ... you'll be okay. It's going to be okay," the lion whispered.

A sniffle. "I'm ... I'm sorry."

"No, no ... you don't need to be. Alright?"

A sniffle.

"Alright?"

A little nod. A twitch. A nod.

"What happened?"

Field told him the whole story ... told him, and ... removed his paw from the water for a moment, and within seconds ... the burning. The searing. And he flinched and cried again, and he plunged the paw back into the ice.

"Honey, you can't keep it in there all night ... you gotta acclimate it to the air. Else you won't be able to get to sleep tonight ... "

A nod.

"How long do you wanna stay?"

"I can't ... drive home. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to surprise or scare you by just ... just ... barging over," said the mouse, eyes darting. Eyes dancing like a dress on the line. "I just ... I didn't know where else to go. I ... I couldn't ... "

"I know," Fuzzy whispered. "It's okay."

Field sniffled. Closed his eyes. Took a deep, shaky breath. Such sustained crying. Some furs claimed to never cry. Or rarely cry. And this was the third day in a row that the mouse had ... been in tears. Each time, it had been for different reasons. And, each time, it had ... led to a healing. To a greater understanding of himself. To a greater intimacy. Each time, the tears had ... they'd had purpose.

They hadn't been empty.

Pain never was.

"Um," Field continued. "Can I ... stay ‘til 10?"

A nod. "Sure." A rubbing of the mouse's arm.

Field let out a breath, paw still plunged in the Arctic ice. Seeing his paws. Seeing the blisters forming, filling with pus. Knowing the back of his paw would be scarred.

"I guess," Field sniffled, "that ... I have a low pain tolerance. I'm ... sorry," he said, apologizing for his weakness. Apologizing for his helplessness.

"You're stronger than you think," was Fuzzy's reply.

To which Field said nothing. For he didn't know what to say to that. He didn't know whether or not to believe it. But ... if his mate thought it was so, then ... mustn't it be? But why was he ... why am I falling to pieces ...

"I don't think it's the pain that has you so upset. It's just ... the thought of what happened. It's ... I don't think it's entirely the physical pain ... you know?"

"Yeah," Field whispered. Looking to the carpet. Hearing the sounds coming from the television.

Lost was on at nine. He would stay for Lost. And Fuzzy would make them macaroni cheese to eat.

"Don't pop the blisters."

"I won't," the mouse whispered, clearing his throat. He nodded.

"You could go to the doctor's."

"No."

"No?"

The mouse went quiet. "I wouldn't know ... where to go, and ... the money ... "

"Well, you gotta ... "

"I got aloe at home. And pills. And ... gauze, and ... I'll show my mom in the morning."

"Alright. But ... you gotta do what you gotta do."

"I know."

"I don't want you to get an infection."

A nod.

Quiet.

The mouse asking, "How come it feels better in cold water?" His cheeks were stained with his tears, but he had ... finally stopped crying.

"Well, it ... neutralizes the heat, I guess. Cancels it out."

A quiet nod.

"But I'm gonna take that bowl away in about ten minutes ... you gotta acclimate your hand to the air."

A swallow. A nod.

"It's gonna hurt."

The mouse nodded. He would try to be brave.