A breath taken.

Lungs filling, and a heart beating.

And mind unfurling (like those morning flowers do).

‘I see and smell and hear that You are, indeed, ushering in another day, my Lord,' was the just-waking, mental prayer. Thought up at Him, thought up to heaven by the groggy, ‘sleep-in-my-eyes' meadow mouse. The humble, timid (but no-longer-scared) rodent who, with his first conscious breath (on this day that was, again, another Friday) did as all good, faithful mouses did before they left their beds: prayed.

‘Oh, thank You for this day, how it's untouched and freshly new. For these blessings, for the dawn of this, the dawn of never-ending Hope that You, in mercy, have gifted me. I do believe. Oh, my heart and soul, I do believe. And whether or not you ride back on your white horse o'er the clouds today or a thousand years from today, I know that I am here, and I am Yours, and I thank You for all this. I know that, in You, I will endure. There is no death. Keep me pure. And keep me strong. Keep me in love. Walk with me, and flow through me, and let me dream of an eternity bathed in Your light, which has no need to rise in the fashion of the sun: for Your light never sets in the first place. It is forever perched at noon.

‘Thank you. I love you.

‘In Jesus' name I pray, amen ... '



Low levels of light coming in through the 9 AM, barely-drawn blinds. But no clear sun, no. The scattered greyness of the sky, with all those heavy, converging clouds, sticking around, still, for another day, and the forecast claiming for some ‘maybe flurries' later. And the little, neon-like nightlight, with its soothing white, still plugged into the wall, still glowing in the electrical outlet next to the dresser.

Rising up to her tip-toes, the tip-toes of her snowy-white foot-paws (with the blunted, black claws), the snow rabbit turned a bit, her body arching, bare back to the mirror, fluffy, white bobtail flicker-flicking once or twice above her rump. As she made somewhat of a face, her position relaxing to its norm. The carpet reasonably plush beneath her.

A yawn from the bed. The meadow mouse, sitting on the edge, prayers given and body stretching and loosing an airy, helpless squeak. While his thin, pink tail waver-waved (but, oh, if all tails could waver-wave in such a fashion) above the blue, black, and white afghan, which had been knit by Ross's great-grandmother (from Portugal) on his mother's side. Back when she'd still been on the Earth. He smacked his lips a few times. And blinked a few times more than that. "You ... need help with that?" he breathed, rubbing his eyes. Seeing what his wife was doing over there, by the mirror.

The snow rabbit paused. And then nodded lightly, looking to him. Her looks, as they always did, laying new foundations. For thoughts, dreams, and whims. Oh, but, yes, with the energy he got from her love, Ross felt he could build whole new buildings, roads, and towns, even! There was no limit. Her love opened up worlds. "Please," she whispered. She, herself, only recently awake. But free of any ‘morning voice' or ‘morning eyes.' No, just a better-even, better-yet bedroom beauty.

Neither of them dressed yet. Wearing only their from-birth, God-given fur. And the lingering scents of the cool bed-sheets, the warm blankets, and the scents, as well, of each other (which they'd liberally applied to themselves last night, in a life-squeezing, limb-wrapping, wild-as-dragonflies union of physical and emotional need).

Ross gave a few errant twitches, stretches, and shakes, and then pushed himself off the covered mattress of their bed, rising to the pads of his foot-paws. And taking the few steps to her, his wife, the snow rabbit. Aria.

Oh, my ‘air,' my lyrical solo, my Queen of the Snowflakes!

Aria!

A cry of beauty.

Her light, ice-blue eyes met his own, deeper blues. Waiting. Patient.

"Well, uh ... where should we start?" Ross whispered, swallowing, licking his dry lips. His whiskers gave an obligatory twitch.

"With my neck," was her simple reply, eye-smiling in that subtle, serene way.

"Of course," he whispered, nodding. "Mm ... can I have the, uh ... thing?"

"It is an ‘applicator'," she said. "And, yes, you may." She gave him the little, gel-filled tube. Standing so close to him. They could feel the familiar warmth of each other's body heat. Oh, the joy of such heat; better than fire-heat, even ... truly, was not the warmth that your love gave off, was it not better than the heat of an actual fire?

A tiny sigh from him. "Okay. Let's get you immunized," he said. From fleas, he meant.

For she was trying to apply her monthly flea medicine to her nape. Generally, that's where one applied it. To the nape, and all down the outline of the spine, down the back. Where it would soak into the fur, and then to the skin beneath. Killing and repelling fleas. Ross didn't know how stuff like this worked. But it did work. And maybe it was a bit of a pain to apply. You couldn't shower for several hours after putting it on, and it left the fur, at the spots of application, obviously matted. But, invariably, the furs who insisted they could go without their flea doses ... ended up getting fleas.

Aria shifted slightly on her foot-paws, turning so that her back was to him. Her front-side facing the mirror, now, that was affixed to the outside of their closet door.

"I guess this means I've gotta have this, too," Ross said, taking the cap off the tube. Squinting just a tiny bit.

"We synchronized our dosing-schedule, yes," she replied. "And there should be enough in that tube ... for me to do you." Still, that subtle eye-smile. That civil sense of underlying mischief. That emotion that wasn't expressed as obvious emotion.

A swallow, and a nod, and he applied the clear, flea-repelling gel to the back of her neck. All that pure, snowy-white fur, soft to the touch. His fingers rubbed the gel in. Parting strands of fur, rubbing it deep, the blunted claws of his paws lightly scratching, scitching.

Oh, itching to touch her in fuller, deeper ways. Oh, control yourself, young mouse. Control yourself! (At least for a few more minutes.)

She closed her eyes and let out a soft, soft sigh through her black, twitching nose. Her whiskers did a bit of a waggle. As did her antennae-like ears.

"Your pelt," he whispered. "It's really soft." A pause. "Not that it isn't that way ALL the time," he added honestly. "But, I don't know. It's ... "

An eye-smile.

"It's just, you're ... "

" ... growing my ‘winter' coat. Yes. Mine is thicker than yours," she acknowledged.

"Yeah ... I guess it would be. You are a SNOW rabbit." A pause. "Well, I like it, you know. Mm ... "

A little sigh (from her), as he continued rubbing her.

"I think our vacuum is broken," she added, as a side-thought, eyes looking at the mirror. As if peering past it. Into the closet, where the vacuum rested in its whirlwind silence. Where it was digesting ‘dust bunnies.' What a morbid phrase, Aria thought. Whoever came up with that ... she gave a furrow of her brow, in the semblance of a frown. Anyway, it should be ‘dust RABBITS.'

"Broken?" asked Ross. A whisker-twitch, massaging her muscles, her back. Her fur. Rubbing the flea medication in more thoroughly than he needed to (but getting no objections from her). "Darling?"

A blink. Snapping back from her thoughts. "Yes ... I don't think it survived the ‘shedding season'," she continued, eyes closed. "Its suction power has become erratic." And a pause. "I suspect it deserved it, however."

"Mm?" A blink from him, this time. "The vacuum?"

"Yes."

"How come?"

"It has aims above its station," was all the snow rabbit said. And then an eye-smile. "But, regardless ... it is broken."

A sigh. "Mm. Well ... we can't really get a new one, you know," the meadow mouse said quietly. "Good vacuums are expensive." But, then, weren't all good, material things? And, sometimes, not even the good ones.

"I know," she whispered back. A pause. "I will fix it," she assured. "If I am hoping to be any sort of engineer, I should be able to fix a vacuum."

"Okay ... "

A pause. Her soft, femme-like sighs.

And the dilating of Ross's eyes.

More of the bedroom quiet. Free, from the moment, of all intrusive city-sounds. For the moment. That freedom wouldn't last. It rarely did.

"I had a bad dream," the meadow mouse said quietly, "last night." Rub-rub ... softly scratch. Squirt some more gel. Rub down, rub down. Off her nape and to her upper back, keeping in the middle. So, so tempted to bury his nose in that fur, to just breathe of her. But, if he did that (on her back, anyway), he'd end up getting a whiff of the flea stuff instead. He'd have to wait until he could get frontal access ...

"Did you?" A note of concern in her calm, steady voice.

"Mm." A nod. Which, in the mirror, she could see. For she was, right now, watching him in the mirror.

"I don't know ... just, like, the One-America Tower, you know. It caught fire. Some disaster. Helicopters and sirens all over." A frown. A shake of the head. "It was stupid."

"Did it wake you up ... in the middle of the night?" she asked. She was certain that, had he woken up, she would've known. She always knew.

A quiet shake of the head. "I slept through it." A pause. "I didn't wake up at all last night," he continued. Which was odd. He normally woke up at least once. To use the bathroom, or because he couldn't slow his mind down (enough to let him drift off).

A little nod.

"I think it was those cars," he whispered, "that did it." Squirting more gel, now, in the middle of her back. Rub-rub, massaging it in. Making her to squirm just a tiny bit. Making her to shuffle on her foot-paws. "That made me have a nightmare, I mean. That noise," he went, "of all those cars going down the street, splashing in rain-puddles." A breath. "I can't stand that sound ... "

"It is unpleasant, yes."

"I can't wait," the meadow mouse whispered, "until we can finish school and ... and get jobs we can like, and move back to the countryside." A breath. "And we can have a baby, and ... you know ... "

"That is a wish of mine, as well," the snow rabbit stated. They'd been here three months, working hard to succeed in school, in hopes of getting careers, but it felt like longer (in some ways). And, at first, this whole city-living thing had been, well, a wide-eyed experiment. Had been a bit of discovery.

Had been neat. New.

But, now, it was becoming a bit routine.

And their feelings (especially Ross's, being that Aria didn't express or feel feelings in the fully-dunked fashion in which he did) ... their relationship with the city was a love-hate relationship. One of respect, even certain amounts of admiration and pride. They would defend it, yes. They would ... and even enjoy it, often.

He would stare up at buildings, gawking, as they walked Downtown.

She would admire the architecture and layouts.

This was a good life-experience. A good perspective to have.

And, yet, there was also an instinctual, gritty resistance, an unwillingness to let one's self ‘get used to it.' A rooted, rural loyalty (and fierce, beautiful memory) that eclipsed all, and that beckoned for them to return to the countryside, to lay down their burdens there. To grow a family (and their lives) there.

But, still, they were here, now, in urban confines, and there was no use overly-complaining about it. Weren't they here by choice? Well, yes. Yes, but only because the city had one thing, really, that it dangled (like a sly entrepreneur) in front of them, like a carrot, a lure. One thing: opportunity. And, oh, the countryside had opportunity, too, but you couldn't buy bread on that kind of opportunity alone. Not anymore. Not in today's society. Used to, you could've. But that was a long time ago. And with the city's monopolized opportunity? Well, at least you'd get a loaf, right ...

But aside from that, what else did the city offer? Was that, alone, enough? The promise of making a stable living? Of getting a ‘well-rounded' education?

Aside from incessant noise, a lack of privacy, and paved-over, no-longer-here nature, and, oh, that nauseating artificiality ... what did the city offer the HEART and the SOUL of a sentient creature? What did it offer to the swoon-prone artist? What did it offer that God's own painted, perfect nature did not? Aside from the parties (that you were never invited to, anyway), the crowds, the traffic, the lack of fresh air, the city-smells, the city-noises, the absence of humble, soil-rooted beauty, and the obliviousness to how to survive without coffee shops and movie theaters and eateries? The ignorance as to how the earth really worked? Where things came from? Wasn't the city apt to spoil you? Addict you? And on what?

A respect and an admiration, yes, for the city. They had that. And a loyalty? That, too. It was their capital (Capital City, Ross sometimes called it), and part of their home. Oh, Indianapolis, oh, Indy, oh you monumental Circle City! You bewitching beauty! How you arouse and confound me all at once ... how I care for you, love you, and yet, how I wish to skirt your hugs. How I wish to break free.

Why do you create such mixed feelings in me?

Oh, the city was important. Society needed cities to survive, to hold things together. They were hubs, connectors. They HAD to be there, and furs HAD to live in them.

Indianapolis had vitality.

It had reality.

They acknowledged such things as truths. Respected them. And even claimed to understand why some furs would actually prefer it here.

But ...

... Ross and Aria, though, ultimately, weren't from the city. Weren't born of and imprinted with its ways. And, no matter any intellectual understanding they had with it, their emotions (as they respectively were) and memories ruled their ultimate perceptions. Their ultimate stance.

They were not of this place.

They were ‘aliens' in a foreign space.

And, so, they had that burning, healthy, sane desire to flee the density. To make for the woods and fields of unchained, rural grounds. Where everything was open and peaceful, and where redemption could be found. Where there were so many unplowed acres. Where butterflies perched on the trunks of every tree, and where the red-winged blackbird was the TRUE harbinger of spring. Oh, the sight, and the feeling, and, oh, to be hearing those blackbirds, clinging to the breeze-blown cattails, as they went ‘oak-a-lee, oak-a-lee,' putting all the dumb-beaked robins to total shame.

Oh, the perfect pitches of the sun, which, like a lemon drop, would sweeten the day, dancing on its way through the sky, saying hello to all the small planes, and ducking for cover when all the storm-clouds rolls in. And the trees, all so green. Until they lost their leaves. Until they became rooted, grounded fireworks. The safe kind of lightning, bolting down from the limbs. Until the limbs where bare. And you had a naked, barren land, with total emptiness everywhere. Frostbit-frigid, making you ache and groan, covered by the snow. Snow clothed nature when it was needing to be clothed. Snow fed nature when it was needing to be fed.

Oh, to witness God working in all this, all these majesties, these miracles.

The depth of life. The infinite, designed complexities of creation.

Oh, to write poetry. Oh, to be in love. To cook your meals and eat them on weather-worn, squeaky benches. To bring a sparkler to your love. On the darkness of a summer night. Come out of nowhere, with a sparkler, and cheer him up.

And do the same for her.

Take care of each other. Don't let each other go.

Don't ever forget to say ‘I love you' before you fall asleep. Don't take for granted that you'll get another chance.

Oh, the smell of the corn being harvested.

Oh, the smell of alfalfa, baled into bales that you, yourself, spent all day stacking. On the bumpy wagon in the fields, breathing of that slight, drifting dust, no shirt, with blue jeans on. The sun beating down on you, causing you to sweat, sweat, sweat. As you lifted those bales and stacked them, and when you were done, and when you were exhausted and sore (the good kind of muscle-building sore), you felt like you'd just done the greatest thing in the world. You felt like this had been the best kind of work, yes, and all out here, all beneath this sky.

And when you slept that night, you were completely still. And you didn't even bother to set an alarm. Let the eastern kingbird wake you. Let it scratch at the screen of your open window, trying to catch the bugs clinging to the other side.

And, oh, the warp-star, champagne-bubble fireflies.

And, oh, the churring cicadas.

Oh, the romantic interludes beneath the sea of stars.

Oh, the countryside.

Where you could walk in bare foot-paws and no shirt in the summer, and lay on hills beneath the sycamores (for you), watching the quiet clouds for hours, like watching whales swimming by in an inverted sea.

Where, in the cold, below freezing, you would all play basketball on the homemade court, even with gloves and winter coats on, because you were simply true-blood Hoosiers.

Where snows drifted and shut all the roads, trapping you.

Isolating you.

Where icicles formed like daggers, like stalactites off the porch.

Where the first thing you saw before you drove into any small town, going off the gravel roads and onto the paved ones, was the water tower. You would always see the water tower first, with the town's name printed up there, in big, proud, black letters. (And paw-made signs cheering on the high school's football team.)

How the main street didn't have any stop-lights.

How its library would be a hundred years old.

How all the churches would all be even older, from before the Civil War. Still standing. Still in use. Simple, humble-white buildings, beautiful in their own ways, and cozy on the insides, and how you would know everyone in the congregation by name.

How places would have names like Big Springs, Sheridan, Thorntown, Russiaville, Advance. Names that invoked immediate, wondered images. How each place would be the ‘capital' of something. How Frankfort claimed to be the ‘hot dog' capital. Some other town claiming to be the capital of wicker furniture. How that little ice cream shop in Burlington had the best blueberry ice cream in the WORLD. How, in Russiaville, the sign on the edge of town pleaded, "Please, come visit us again!" As if afraid that you would never come back. Oh, please, come back ... don't leave us a memory. Make us to matter.

Please, come back. We have something to offer you ... !

Don't let us turn into a Kempton.

Don't let us turn into a ghost town, caught between granaries, where the Sundries is shut, and where there are houses, but you could swear that no one ever enters or leaves. Where the railroad cuts through, on its way from this county to the next.

How you wave at the train as it goes by, and take pictures of it, wondering ‘where is it going' ... you want to chase it. But, on second thought, you don't. You don't wish to offend the train. It's too noble a thing to run after.

Give it its room. Let it go. Don't feel sorry for it. Its still got its pride.

It'll be back.

And how you would almost start to sob (and, sometimes, you do) at each dilapidated, forsaken barn. At each abandoned farm. Wishing you could go inside and speak kind words to it. Oh, poor barns. Oh, no-longer farms.

Someone will love you again, you assure. Because to say otherwise would be to invite despair.

How there would be little eateries that you would only find in small towns in Indiana. The Red Onion. The Twin Kiss (the best-named restaurant ever). How you could get the best onion rings and vanilla malts in the whole-wide-world there.

How your bank was called ‘The Farmers Bank.'

How all the tractors were lined up outside the John Deere store on the edge of town, like how furs would sit in rocking chairs. That's how the tractors would sit. You almost wanted to go up to them and start talking to them, telling them about your day.

How, on the day of the 500, or the day of the Brickyard, how you'd be excited beyond the definition of excited, waiting for the stealth bomber to fly over on its way to Speedway, waiting for the motor-purrs on the radio, and it was hot, so hot that it was breaking some kind of obscure record, and you would quickly go outside and to the hose that was hooked up to the cows' water, and you would unscrew it, and you would spray yourself silly, squeaking with cold, shocked delight. Droplets clinging to your whiskers like little, watery worlds.

How, sometimes, it would all turn into a dark, fierce front. A brooding, painted backdrop. How a swirling arm of clouds would drop from the sky and punch and swat at everything. Vicious hail, and flooding rain. No power. Only the static of the battery-powered radio, telling you that you were ‘under the gun,' and ‘seek shelter immediately.' How you would be in your basement, the house creaking all around you, the floor full of mud and daddy-long-leg spiders, and how the whole world was being blown away above your head, and the basement door was being forced open just a crack, and you refused to look. You refused to be like Lot's wife. Don't look. Just close your eyes. And pray.

Oh, you had never tasted such truly real fear in your entire life.

How you thought, for the first time, about actually dying. Right here. Right now. How you prayed fervently. Asked God to keep the roof in place.

And, how, just like that, it would pass, and you would go out into eerie, leftover silence, and how you finally let yourself exhale.

How you would survive.

Oh, life. Oh, Lord.

How, when you cried, in sorrow, in loss, in the full light of the moon, the mockingbirds would take pity on you. And mimic the songs of all the birds and sounds they could think of. Just to distract you a little bit. Just to help you out. How they would, in the day, fly like World War One fighter planes, so handsome, swooping in their circles as they did. Landing on the beams of the swing-set that no one used anymore.

How your frustrations would prompt you to take off on a sprint. Running, running, until you couldn't run anymore, until you couldn't breathe, until you fell into the tall, wild grasses and just screamed at the sky in anger and confusion, panting ‘why, why, why!'

How pain was more real out there. How the soil seemed to soak your tears.

How joy was more real, too. And how the birds seemed to pass on the word of your happiness. Spread the word! Free songs for all!

How making love outdoors, unseen, stealing kisses by a stream, made the act all the sweeter. And how the minnows would gather at the surface of the creek to try and get a better look as you, meadow mouse and snow rabbit, pressed into the grass. Burrs getting stuck in your fur, but you didn't care, for your lips were locked. And the light you were seeing in her eyes was touching you now, and how you wrapped yourself around her, drove yourself against her, drinking of her sweet, loosened lips. And how she held on to you, urging you, building your confidence, directing you further, further. The sun soaking into your fur, and the breeze, when it began to blow, cooling you down. The wide-open, wildflower caresses.

The blinding finishes.

And that first look you exchanged afterward. The first words you said as you regained your breath.

Oh, nature.

Environment.

Sense of place.

Home.

Oh, as soon as they were able ... they would have that. That home. They would get back to it.

As soon ...

... as soon as ... rub-rub. Softly rub.

Ross had reached, now, the small of her back. Lost in his memories. Lost in his thoughts. But slowly blinking, slowly realizing that, yes, he was here, in this apartment. With her. His paws on her bare backside. Rubbing.

Which elicited another soft, warm sigh from her. Aria's head leaning forward a bit, and ears, too, drooped (in that relaxing, luxurious way). Was she supposed to be enjoying this as much as she was?

Until Ross whispered, "I'm, uh ... all done." And his paws stopped their little presses and their little motions. And regretfully left her fur. And he took a deep breath. To clear his head.

The rabbit took a breath through her twitching nose, and stood up straighter, turning around. To face him, now, muzzle-to-muzzle, nearly nose-to-nose.

"Uh ... here," he said, still whispering. Gently giving her the flea tube. Which she quietly took.

"It is your turn," was her simple, playful response. Playful in her eyes. And her posture. Though her voice remained smooth and calm.

"I need to go to the bathroom first, and ... also, need to use some muzzle-wash," he said, smacking his lips a bit. "Cause, I, uh, wanna be fresh," was his admittance, "for when I kiss you ... "

"So, you are going to kiss me?" Her eyes sparkled, voice picking up in a restrained, teasing tone. (Despite their unchanging instincts, let it not be said that the mouse hadn't rubbed off on her in a few, subtle ways; and vice versa.) Her bobtail flicker-flicked. "Mm?"

The meadow mouse just bit his lip, his ears going all rosy-pink, flushing, and he cleared his throat, taking a step for the door. "I'll be back in a minute," he whispered, in his light, wispy voice.

"I will be waiting," was the snow rabbit's promise.

Making Ross to sigh, and making his heart to swoon. All as he slowly backed out of the room, bumping (in his state of not-looking-where-he-was-going) into the frame of the door, nearly falling. Squeaking, blushing more, and then sidling out of sight.

Aria just eye-smiled to herself, shaking her head in slight, logical amusement (and affection), and went and primly sat on the edge of their bed. Her legs together. Paws going to a clasp in her lap as she let out a sigh of her own. Unclasping her paws, soon stretching her arms a bit, and trying not to mind the feel of matted fur (from the flea stuff). Matted, sticky fur was disconcerting. And ...

... after a minute, Ross returned, sitting (softly, silently) beside her on the bed. Letting out a breath, and nodding lightly (at nothing in particular). His breath smelling of vanilla mint mouth-wash, for one.

Her nose did a few sniffs and a few twitches as she, in her analytical, observational way, made a breakfast of drinking him in with her eyes. Some furs drank coffee in the mornings. She couldn't tolerate coffee. It was unimaginable how so many could. (Coffee was one of the biggest scams in the world today. Coffee and bottled water. It was hard to choose which was more unnecessary.) And orange juice? Well, she liked orange juice, sure (and didn't everyone), but, still, she preferred to eye-drink a few servings of mouses.

And who would begrudge her that ...

And he noticed her long, lingering gaze. He noticed the ‘rabbity' look on her muzzle. Rabbity. And he cleared his throat, trying not to get distracted. Saying, conversationally, quietly, "I don't think I said good morning."

"Good morning? To me?"

"Yeah. I don't think I said it." A small breath. "When I woke up, I mean. You know ... "

"You did not," she concurred, thinking back. And she raised a brow. "But, then, I did not say it to you, either."

"Well ... good morning, then." A bright, boyish smile.

And a head tilt from her, and an eye-smile. Her tone of level brightness. "Good morning," was her response.

And Ross nodded, beaming, whiskers twitching, and nose doing a few sniffs. And his ears swiveling. And his tail snaking.

"I see you are adequately ‘woken up'," Aria observed.

"Mm?"

"Your ‘motor'," she continued, "is going. Your mousey ... "

" ... motor. Ah," he went, blushing, smiling. Ears going rosy-pink. "Well, I just needed a proper jump-start."

"I didn't know I had already provided the current."

"It came in your eyes. It came when your eyes met mine. Leapt invisibly," he insisted, "through the air, and ran through my head, and then to my heart, and then all over." His airy voice rambling in that blabber-mouse way. That way that resulted when the words, the poetry, took a hold of him, and all of it just scurried out of his muzzle. Spilled out. Those times when he was liable to say anything at all. And none of it would sound out-of-place.

"The art of love," the snow rabbit replied, nodding. Nodding with clear approval. "God knew what He was doing when He created it."

"I suppose He did." An honest smile.

"Ross ... "

" ... yes?" His breath baited. Throat going a bit dry.

"I need to apply your flea medicine."

An exhale. "Oh." A sigh. "Okay."

Her eyes smiling, though, strongly. Her posture relaxed. "It will only take a minute," was her assurance. "Now, stand."

"Is that an order?"

"Yes." Eyes meeting his.

The mouse giggle-squeaked. And nodded, and did so. Standing before her. Still in his naked state (as she was). And he sighed again, back to her. And she stood, too, applying some of the flea gel to her white, soft paw. And then rubbing it on her husband's neck.

Ross closed his eyes.

The snow rabbit using both her paws to rub. His neck, his shoulders, even. And then down the curve of his spine. All the way down. All the way to the base of that spaghetti-noodle, fishing-line, hanging-rope tail of his.

All the way down until ...

" ... eek!" He rose to the tips of his foot-paws. For a few seconds. And then settled back down, saying, "What was that for? You're not ... " A flush. A shy stammer. "You don't apply it to my rump," he finally said, whispering it.

"I was not. I was simply ... testing your reflexes," she told him.

An airy giggling, and then a chitter. "No ... "

"I do not lie," she assured him, eyes glowing. Posture playful. Her bobtail flickering behind her (like a flame).

"You just wanted to grab me."

"And if I did? Do you object?"

Ross bit his lip, slowly turning around. Eyes sparking, too, with full-blown emotion. Fully-outed affection. "Are you done?" he asked, looking down to the tube of flea gel.

"You are properly protected."

"So, that's a ‘yes,' huh ... "

"Yes." Their eyes meeting. Their bare bellies close, and their noses closer. "Yes," she repeated, at a whisper, because she had to. Because she felt compelled to.

As he felt compelled to lean into her.

As she felt to compelled to kiss him.

As arms wrapped around backs. As paws clutched and pulled at fur. As ears swivelled and waggled, and tails flickered and snaked. As they wound up, side-by-side, on the bed. Breathing a little bit faster. A little bit. Oh, more than a little bit!

Hearts going faster.

"Aria ... "

" ... mm?" Her muzzle on his neck. On his cheek.

His head craned. His eyes shut. "We, uh ... we can't take a shower after this. We just put that stuff in our fur. We'll ... we'll smell of ... " He trailed, leaving it implied.

"I do not have to be anywhere until after lunch," she said. "Do you?"

"No ... no," he managed.

"Then," she breathed, "I see no obstacles ... "

Oh, such logic! Such precision! Who was he to argue with that?

Squeaks.

Rabbit-purrs.

Chitters.

Mews.

And their grabbing, turning, writhing, paw-sliding, lip-nibbling, hip-grinding began, a chamber orchestra of heated, passionate movements. Oh, flushing pleasure! Oh, to measure such feeling! A symphonic, simmering love, buoyed by hope and faith, and oblivious, for now, to all the hurdles around them. For home, truly, was where the heart was. And his heart was with her, and hers with him.

Beating hearts, together.

Beautifully tethered.