It was November, the Monday before Thanksgiving, and the always-noisy, mechanical hustle-and-bustle of the nature-less city seemed to slow, as if holding its breath in baited anticipation. The skyscrapers going all googly-windowed, as if jabbering with each other (occasionally teasing each other; ‘my spire's bigger than yours!').

The Soldiers and Sailors Monument in its marvelous holiday dress. Posing for all.

Breathe in (and out). Breathe in.

And hold it, hold it. Baited breath, remember! It's the time of baited breath! Oh, but exhale, now, before you turn blue!

Such a feeling was in the city today. That ‘festive' kind of vibration.

An excitement.

For a holiday was near.

Very nearly here! (And after that, another. And another!)

City-furs loved holidays. Loved them like government-okayed calendar drugs. Without them, they had no reprieve.

"I'm glad to see you all today. Glad you decided to come ... " The professor, tinkering with the front-room computer, greeted the class. Carrying with her, as always, a bottle of water. And a black tote-bag.

Small murmurs.

Rustling of papers.

Furs on ‘cell' phones. (Ross swore never to own one of those. Ever.)

They sat in a modern lecture hall (‘capacity: 240') in the two-year-old ‘Art School' building, the lights dim and sleepy, overhead projectors hanging in svelte, metal cages from the pearl-white ceiling, and all the walls with abstract, wooden designs. Sitting obediently in those plush, densely-packed chairs, the grey-black kind that were bolted to the downward-sloping floor.

HER-H101. Art History, Level One. 1:30 to 2:45.

More emptier seats than usual.

Many students choosing to take the entire week off. To extend their holiday. The studious ones, though, in attendance. Or the ones who simply had nowhere else to be, or nothing else to do. And the ones that realized, ‘hey, I'm paying big money to be in these classes, so I might as well show up.'

Ross and Aria sat in the back, as Ross normally did. Three rows from the back (the eighth of eleven rows, counting from the front), and by the aisle. Closer to the varied, muted browns of the wall, but with enough space on one's right to comfortably breathe. Oh, mouses, and rodents in general, they had no problem with small spaces. Small rooms, burrows, dens. No, but being in a crowd of creatures was, in and of itself, enough to warrant claustrophobia. And though the crowd was lighter today (just over a hundred furs, he would've guessed), he still liked to sit in the back. And by the aisle. It gave him room to scurry (should he need to; never mind that the impulse didn't make sense).

Aria, herself, wasn't enrolled in the class. And had never attended one of these lectures before. Simply, one of her labs had been cancelled today, and rather than using the unexpected free-time of a suddenly-open, lazy, Monday afternoon to study (again, again, again), or et cetera, she'd decided to tag along with her husband.

Ross didn't mind.

He was glad to have her company. He was less nervous when she was around. Less self-conscious when she was around. All in all, more comfortable. Plus, he'd never been in a class with her before. And, even if it was only this one class, and just today, it was nice to have her here. Like a kind of thrill. A kind of bonus.

Nice to have her in the next seat.

Nice to have her scent lightly in his nose.

His whiskers did a twitch-sniff. A sniff-twitch. A twitch or two.

She watched the motions. And gave a singular twitch of her own whiskers. As if silently showing off her lack of kinetic excess.

Ross just smiled, shaking his head lightly (just because).

"Gothic is a style," the teacher was saying, speaking fully now. Quieting all the voices of the class-furs. And moving about on the stage. The in-her-thirties tabby cat, her fur orange, with whorls and stripes of varying shades. Her tail snaking in that silky, motoring way that felines had. Did they have to practice those kinds of movements? Or did they come effortlessly, as instinct? "A style," she continued, "invented in Paris in the 12th Century. Gothic art has nothing to do with Goths. That term, actually, was born of Renaissance opinion. They thought it was ugly. So, the whole style being ugly, in their minds ... they figured the Goths must've created it. Because the Goths were brutes. And the Goths didn't appreciate beauty or senses of design." A breath. "So, we keep the term ‘Gothic' today simply as a term of convenience ... "

The meadow mouse's and snow rabbit's coats and backpacks were neatly sprawling into the aisle. It was warmer today. Still that airy nip. Still that ‘shiver-a-bit-when-you-breathe,' but it wasn't freezing. Just solidly cool at forty-six degrees, but the sun was out, and there wasn't much of a breeze. All in all, it allowed for most furs to go with no shoes. Which is exactly what they'd done.

"The plans on the left," the teacher went on, "show two phases of the abbey at Saint-Denis ... the nave here represents ... "

Aria, quietly listening to the professor's lecture, wiggled her antennae-ears slightly.

Wiggle.

Waggle.

Those long, slender, snowy-white ears, with the tender, pale-pink interiors, and the charcoal-black fringes of fur along the edges of all the white. She pressed her bare foot-paws onto the back of the unoccupied seat in front of her. Bending her toes, careful not to let her blunted, black claws ‘clack-clack' on the plastic of the seat's backside. The pads on the soles of her foot-paws being that sooty-black, too, in such contrast to the soft, silky-white fur that covered almost all of her.

Oh, the endless, Arctic hues.

Oh, the beauty of her.

" ... the east end was rebuilt between 1140 and 1144, and was the first ‘experiment' of Gothic Structure. Later, they finished the church and made it ALL Gothic. Now, in 1140, there were TWO towers, but ... "

Ross, all mousey and earthy-furred, sat, as he often did, with foot-paws snugged together, pulled back. Knees together, too. An effeminate, submissive posture. Not that he consciously knew it (or could help it). Eyes scanning the big, illuminated screens at the front of the hall. Drinking in the pictures. Dishy, fleshy ears (oh, swivel-ears) picking up all the spoken words, which were being magnified by a microphone.

Aria listened. Wiggle-waggle.

Ross listened. Swivel-swivel.

Were they having an ear-contest? Was she trying to eclipse his swivels with her waggles? Oh, she couldn't think she'd succeed in doing that ...

Sitting side-by-side, the only furs in this part of the row. Or, indeed, in this section of the lecture hall. A bit of dim-lit privacy.

Hmm ...

And the meadow mouse's tail had worked itself, during the listening (as if with a mind of its own; though one could never be sure how many of his tail-motions were unconscious and how many were purposeful) over the left-armrest of his seat. And was, like one of those snake-charming basket-snakes, swaying in front of his wife.

Sway-sway ... waver-wave.

Waver.

"The vaults tie it all together like a spider web, or a net ... in the ambulatory, the altar is right here. You can see the ribbing of the webbed vaults ... in a Gothic web-vault, it's basically a groin vault, but the masonry ... "

Aria's paws finally, gently, grabbed hold of her husband's obviously wayward tail. His prettily-pink, rope-like tail, with the naked, sensitive flesh, with the short, invisible hairs from tip to base (that felt the air, and that amplified touches). Before (for he'd been doing this, on and off, since they'd entered and taken their seats), the snow rabbit had, with discreet eye-smiles, playfully (in her calmly restrained, emotionally ‘frozen' way) swatted at his tail until he'd retracted it. But this time she kept it. Kept it. Grasped it. And settled her tail-holding paws on her lap.

Ross proceeded to wriggle it. His tail. Wriggle-wriggle.

But she held on, looking to the front-of-the-hall screens, feigning ignorance. She gave no hints of letting go. Just more ice-blue eye-smiles, those enigmatic looks. That eye-shining that, for the life of him, Ross could not mimic.

It was an ice-fur thing. And it was a lovely effect.

Wriggle.

Hold.

Wriggle.

Hold.

Until the wriggling reluctantly stopped (for now).

"This is the Chartres Cathedral. If you'll remember, we've already looked at part of Chartres, and we're gonna look at the rest of the church, now. So ... when you look at the west facade ... this church burned down a couple of times. The whole thing burned in 1194, with the exception of this west block. You can always recognize Chartres by its mismatched spires. Each was built in the fashion of the time, and no one seemed to care that they don't match ... but, you have to remember: it took, often, decades to build these churches. And we're talking," she emphasized, getting excited, almost to the point of purring, "thousands and thousands of fur-hours. By paw. Remember, all of these carvings, these frames. These ENTIRE buildings were carved and chiseled by PAW ... just imagine," she breathed.

Ross tried to. Decades of intricate, delicate work. So patient. So driven. Spending your whole life working to raise that church. Leaving it behind. And it looked so perfect, giving off such artistry. Had that truly been built by paws? Of course. But, in a way, it looked beyond those capabilities. Like angels had, on God's decree, delivered houses of His making. And had just set them there. Oh, impressive.

His imagination wandering wildly now (as if often did).

The cathedrals were, to him, beautiful. He didn't understand why the Renaissance historians had thought them ugly. Had thought them uncultured. He could only imagine standing at the base of one. Taking his camera. Oh, to get pictures of these places, of these things. To capture all this beauty, and to walk in there, wide-eyed. And to see. Oh, he'd love to get pictures of those. He would love to travel. If only he weren't so afraid of planes. If only he weren't so afraid of leaving his home. If only he had the resources to do it.

And on and on.

When you grew up on a farm, you didn't take vacations. You never traveled. You couldn't. Because the farm needed to be kept. The cows needed to be milked (twice a day, morning and night). And in the summer, especially, when most furs took their vacations, that was the time of hay-baling and straw-baling, and that was the time of tending crops, and ...

... well, farmers had no money. His family had been poor. He'd rarely gone anywhere. They couldn't afford to. No, the Indiana countryside was his vacation-spot. Was his love. Was his eternal destination. Long since imprinted on his heart.

But, still, so many places, and so much to see. All that the Lord had made. And all that his creations had made for Him. And everything.

But ...

... there was the ‘but.' The experience. The reality.

So, while he dreamed of being able to see those magnificent cathedrals. While he longed to be inside one of those things, with Aria, his wife, at his side, tugging her innocently along ...

... he knew it wouldn't happen. Not with him and Aria having to pay for school, and having to pay for school even when (in however many years) they finally graduated. And finding a job, and starting a family.

Travel?

Vacations?

What were those?

Things like that (like vacations) didn't happen to real furs. Only furs in magazines. The kind who frequented coffee shops in bookstores. The kind who lived in suburbs.

No, the world would have to wait.

Maybe forever.

But, then, that's why God gave us dreams ... was the mouse's reassuring self-smile. You're alive. You can't really place a limit on what you may or may not see. Oh, live, young mouse! Dream that it will be so!

You already have eternity. Everything is, indeed, possible.

You may see those cathedrals yet.

"I was in Chartres, and when I was there, in the cathedral, there was a performance of chants. Gregorian chants. I'm not kidding when I tell you that ... these buildings are BUILT with such harmony. And the music of the time was composed to be such a part OF the buildings. But the resonance," she repeated. "The chanters, when we listened to them, when they STOPPED singing, when they shut their muzzles ... the sound of their voices carried on for nine seconds. I counted nine seconds. The open space, and the way the sounds bounce ... nine seconds. Now, I've heard other cathedrals have a resonance of THIRTEEN seconds, but I haven't been able to get to any of those ... "

He tried to imagine that, too. With his sensitive, very-good ears, he tried to imagine such heavenly acoustics. He closed his eyes. As if transferring their abilities to his ears. As if feeding the thoughts of ‘what if.' What would it sound like to be in a Gothic cathedral?

Would it sound cavernous?

Would it sound endless?

Would it sound like eternity? Like how heaven would sound? Where everything was pure energy? And pure light? That shimmering, dust-on-angel-wings kind of sound? Like tinkling bells on Christmas trees?

And what would it smell like? Would it smell dusty? Would it smell like cobwebs, like how the basement at home, on the farm, smelled like? Like that damp earthiness? Would it smell old?

The meadow mouse had grown up going to small, country churches. Quaker churches, and even Baptist churches. Presbyterian churches. The denominations didn't so much matter. They were all Christian. Small, farming churches that were built between corn fields on county lines. And churches on the all-brick main roads of forgotten towns. All sorts. That evoked all sorts of memories. Congregational suppers. Lighting the advent candles. Wooden pews, and hymnals.

They'd all been simple, modest buildings. Very humble in design. Homespun, almost, made for an intimate, glowing kind of worship. But those cathedrals. Look at those! How immense! How towering! He didn't think he'd be able to worship in a cathedral like that one. Or like that other one, or that one. Or any of them. Any of the ones he saw in the pictures shown to him.

The space, itself, would be too overwhelming. Too distracting in its ornateness, in its size. In it's ‘look, but don't eat' wedding cake-ness. Drawing your gaze up, yes, as if up to God, but would you be able to even speak in a place like that? Would you have to whisper in reverence? And what of all that immense, millennia-old stone? Just hanging above your head? How delicate would your steps have to be? Would you even have to think your thoughts with quietness, lest you disturb the structure? When whole civilizations and nations had risen and fallen, and those churches were still here, outliving them all. How long did the churches have? Would they be here until Christ rode back?

Those cathedrals were built for eternity. And it showed.

You'd have to be cruel not to respect them.

It didn't so much matter, though, in the end. The building. As impressive or as humble as it could be. As much or as little attention as it garnered. It wasn't the building, so much, that mattered. Buildings and rooms didn't make or break a faith. You could choose any room. Anywhere. It was what you DID in there.

It was the act of worship itself.

Setting aside the time to indulge the WANT to glorify the Lord, and to sing to Him, and to pray to Him. To come to him in sorrow and in joy. In joy, to give thanks. To not forget that you did not bestow your blessings upon yourself. That they were given to you. As your salvation, the greatest of all blessings, was. In joy. And in sorrow. In the midst of death and heartbreak and struggle, to give praise even then. To come to Him even then. Oh, it was easy to have faith when it was all ‘good times.' When the darkness hit, it was much harder. But much more representative of an individual's strength of character.

Did you cut and run at the first loss?

Did you turn your back when the trouble started?

Did you run?

Or did you stay. Did you stay. Hot or cold, light or dark, did you stay your ground? Did you keep your roots?

Or did you tear yourself up and go with the wind?

It was easy to have faith. Much harder to be faithful.

And the worship.

If you did it, the praising, out of obligation, or out of simple tradition, or any of those ‘reasons,' then you might as well not be doing it at all. As with all deeper things, if worship didn't come from the heart, it came from nowhere.

And the fellowship you had during that worship. Just as important. The meadow mouse had discovered that. When he'd been younger. As he'd grown. As he'd met furs who believed in nothing. And who'd ‘rubbed off' on him, almost convincing him to believe in the same. Oh, the need to be with other Christians.
Stick together. You are a flock. You are My flock.

And how he'd fallen in love with Aria, who shared his faith. How important that was. In allowing them to communicate, and to understand one another. In enhancing their intimacy. Oh, to keep your own faith strong. To keep you from the haters and the doubters. To be with those, and to be influenced by those who, like you, truly had that heart-welling, wide-eyed belief.

To be good seeds. To bear fruit.

And to live in a way that would please the Lord, and to live as Christ had taught. That the Holy Spirit may flow through you.

That you not twist your faith, forcing it to conform to you. Or to popular society. Rewriting it suit your own wants and desires.

But, rather, that you, yourself, conform to your faith.

Oh, those cathedrals! The thoughts they brought on!

Gothic cathedrals. The mouse had never laid eyes upon buildings that had so intimidated him and awed him (with beauty) at the same time. He couldn't help but stare. He couldn't help but feel, in a way, sort of scared. Scared of them. And, yet, so fascinated.

"The Gothic church uses a different kind of buttress to create an illusion. The illusion that the building is held up by light, by glass. The flying buttress," the teacher explained, gesturing at the pictures on the screen, "props up the wall in the point calculated to receive the most force, but it's physically set away from the wall. This is the same concept that a lot of modern buildings have, skyscrapers in particular. A modern building is generally constructed by building a skeleton. The walls, the glass ... they become like curtains. The weight is actually on the skeleton."

Ross's whiskers twitched. His tail still being held by Aria.

And Aria still pretending like she didn't know she was still holding it. Anyone who claimed that snow rabbits were ‘icicles' obviously didn't know snow rabbits like he did. Like how he knew Aria. Oh, their emotions were subtle. Held-back. To the uninitiated, it gave the impression of ‘coldness,' of ‘indifference.' But, no. No, there was none of that. Not with her. Not with his wife. Oh, her ‘play' was done in different ways. But, oh, it was there. You could have fun with a snow rabbit. Make no mistake.

Ross, again, tried to retrieve his tail.

She resisted.

He bit his lip, holding back the giggle-squeaks. He would've retaliated (or should that be reciprocated), but her flicker-flame of a flurry-white bobtail was out of reach (and out of view), concealed by her own back and the cushion of the back of her seat.

" ... images of colored light. Is what stained glass really is. That's what it does. It turns white light into colored light. And it isn't REALLY stained glass at all. That's a misnomer," the professor declared. "No, technically, it's pot-metal glass. The color is made in the melting pot. Sand, beechwood ... used to make glass. The colors, they made with metal oxides, cobalt, iron ... "

Ross was missing words. Having a harder time paying attention.

For Aria's right foot-paw went back to the cool, smooth, sloping floor. Her foot-paws leaving the back of the seat in front of her. Back on the floor, now. Settling. Until her right-foot-paw slid over, slightly. Stopped. And slid an inch more.

Ross watching this through downward-darting eyes. Wondering what she was doing. What are you doing ...

"And here is one of the large stained glass windows, this one showing the genealogy of Christ ... the windows are so much more important in the architecture. And the architecture. Notice the arches. The Romanesque churches used a lot of rounded arches. The windows have rounded tops. The Gothic cathedrals, however, use a pointed arch. Probably ninety percent use pointed arches ... "

Aria's snowy-white pinky-toe, on her right foot-paw, eventually met Ross's left, muddy-brown pinky-toe. From his left foot-paw. And, soon, her entire foot-paw was sliding over his. In a slow, sensual way. In a non-accidental way. Her toes curling, blunt foot-claws raking through the short fur that one found on the foot-paws.

His heart skipped a few beats. And not just from the gently-bumping, toe-touching foot-paws. No, her paw-grip on his long, thin mouse-tail had turned into a very subtle, very slow paw-stroking. One paw holding his tail in perfect, inescapable place. The other closed, and stroking up and down the length. Like playing some kind of instrument.

He shivered, eyes shutting. It was enough to make him arch.

But, anticipating this, she removed her stroking paw and stuck her arm out. In front of his chest. Keeping him in his seat. And, seeing him sink back, she retracted her arm. And resumed the tail-stroking.

Was anybody seeing this?

Ross's ears flushed the rosiest of pinks. It was dim in here. A lot of furs were hunched over, sleeping. Heads in arms. Others were zoning out. Others staring at the screen. None were sitting around him and her.

None were noticing, no.

Besides, Aria had keen senses. Had a sense of logic and civility about her. Being a snow rabbit and all. If she sensed they were causing any sort of scene, however little, she would've stopped. Would've ... but wasn't, so ... wasn't, and didn't, and ...

... Ross shook his head. Her simmering, soft touches, to his tail and his foot-paws, and her toes, now, lifting the frayed bottoms of his jeans. Rubbing up his ankles a bit. She was making it really hard for him to concentrate on the lecture.

"It's very difficult to comprehend the totality of a Gothic cathedral through just pictures. I'm going to show a thirteen-minutes video ... I'll warn you, though, of two things: one being that the art historian is, uh, a bit pretentious. Try not to be put off by his word-usage. The second: it IS a videotape, so ... "

A few chuckles from the room (at the fact that they were going to, gasp, watch an actual videotape ... which made Ross, at twenty-two, feel already-old).

But he was only half paying attention, anyway. Scribbling out, with purple pen, on a piece of notebook paper: ‘You're RABBITY right now, aren't you?' And he gave the note to Aria. (‘Rabbity' being the rabbit-specific adjective for ‘yiffy.' Being that rabbits had stronger yiff drives than other furs, they had their OWN adjective for it.)

She read it, eyes shining. And gestured for his pen.

He gave it.

She scribbled. And gave the note back. It said: ‘I believe I am.'

He retook his pen. And wrote something.

She leaned over. And read: ‘Can't you wait forty minutes? We're kind of in public!'

Snatching the pen (and the paper), she scribble-scribbled. Writing, ‘I can wait ... I think." The ‘I think' added as a joke. To work him up. No, she could control herself. (She wasn't feral, after all. She was an expert in emotional/physical self-control.) "I simply wish to toy with you. I strongly wish,' she'd written, ‘to toy with you.'

‘Toy?' Ross mouthed, wordlessly.

A nod-nod, her pupils dilated.

‘Why?' he mouthed.

Her mouth-back: ‘It is enjoyable.' And she took to writing again. Writing neatly (as he did; both of them had good paw-writing). And, once more, giving him the paper, which was now full of their silent scribbles (a lot more than it was of lecture notes). This time, it read: ‘I would like to kiss you. Just to get a taste of you. To tide me over.'

Ross, as shy as he was, hesitated, heart pounding. Maybe he shouldn't have agreed to bring her along. Maybe he should've asked her to do more studying, or ...

... Aria, with logical impatience, soon made up his mind for him. Sliding a paw up his arm, softly, slowly. Holding to him tenderly.

Ross, in the dimness, watched with wide-eyed heat. Not moving. Not resisting.

Until she leaned fully into him, pressing into him. Her paws gripping his clothing, and without warning, the full-on lip-merge. Wet, loosened lips, hers to his, getting each other's warm, moist breaths. Getting a bit of her tongue. Getting hot.

Until she broke it with the lightest of smack-smack sounds. So that no one heard. So that no one, really, saw.

" ... but it's the best video I have on the topic, really, at the moment, so ... " The professor trailed, fiddling with the lights. Which went, from their already-dim, to a darker-dark. Accentuating the big screen in the front.

The snow rabbit's paws immediately moved. For more. Wanting a bit more. Hard to remain perfectly civil when the ‘urge' hit you. Even if you were a snow rabbit! No, she needed some mouse. Just another taste. One more taste.

Ross opened his muzzle to let out a squeak, but ...

... her paw was already ‘muzzling' the sound. Muffling it. Saving them both from sudden looks. Her eyes met his. Gentle, calm, playful. Sensual. Loving. Her eyes telling him to calm down.

The meadow mouse swallowed, nodding. Nodding again. But a bit too excited, now, heart hammering.

For she pressed in for another kiss. This one longer. This one lasting. Heads tilted, whiskers idly brushing. Paws holding to each other. Noses flaring as the wet, muzzle-on-muzzle meeting led to the skipping of heartbeats. Led to emotional swoons, heady with the scents of each other.

Ross was flushing hard now. Very hard. Burning up, almost, beneath his cheeks. And his ears, too. It's not like he'd expected this to happen. Not like he was embarrassed to be kissing in public. He was her husband. But this was an art history lecture! This was in class, and granted, it was dark, and no one was sitting near them, but he felt like a teenager in the back of a movie theater. Like he was, at any moment, gonna be caught by an usher with a flashlight. Like the professor herself, with her laser pointer, would see them and single them out, pointing that red, piercing beam right at them. And then everyone would turn and see and go ‘ooh' (like how they did on Saturday morning high school shows).

But, oh, her kisses (for they were given in plural fashion now) were offered.

And he just couldn't reject them. He was sane, after all. And, so, he pressed back. With muzzle, with tongue, with twitch-sniffing nose, and with gripping paws. He kissed her back. As passionately and quietly and sweetly as he could.

Until, again, they broke apart.

Until, this time, their breaths were coming a bit faster. At a slight ‘pant-pant-pant.' No, they had to slow down, now.

Slow down. Slow down.

Or you'll lose control.

Tide her over, indeed. Aria looked satisfied. But he could tell she wanted more. He could tell by how her ears were slightly bent over (from heat, from desire). Oh, he could tell just by the way she'd been kissing him!

And, well, he did, too. Wanted more, that is. So, he wasn't going to fault her. But, as he wrote to her on their scribble-paper: ‘You started it! Now, I can only think about one thing! And it's NOT Gothic cathedrals!'

Aria only eye-smiled, whispering, "Shh. I am trying to watch the video."

An airy giggle-squeak from him. "Oh, you," he finally whispered back, with mock-aggravation. And he sat up straighter.

And the video, by now, fully playing on the screen, filled with chants, shots of water reflections, and a British voice. Panning in on a French cathedral, and approaching it like one would approach the gates of heaven. With much lingering. And much musical fanfare.

And, in the dimness, the snow rabbit and meadow mouse watched ...

... each other. Out of the corners of their eyes.

Neither making further moves. But exchanging those nonverbal ‘I love you' cues. Those little, look-given promises.

Those ‘we'll settle this later' declarations.

So, sighing, Ross leaned back. Eyes filtering, finally, back to the video. Widening at the architecture and the art of the European churches. And, while watching, he reached for Aria's paw.

She gave it.

He held.

She squeezed.

And he smiled. Widely and whisker-twitching, he smiled. Glad to know that he was sitting next to someone far more beautiful than any Gothic cathedral. Glad (and blessed) to know. And not letting go of her paw for anything.