You're tossing and turning, wound up in some ridiculous nightmare that you know is fake. And yet, frustratingly, your mind keeps you in the limbo of perpetually flubbing the lines of your upcoming job interview. It would be fine, better if you simply forgot to wear pants. Then it would feel less real.
You only wake up once you decide it would be better to wistfully dread the future from your balcony, staring out at the AM so early the sun hasn't risen--except it already has, and squinting through your groggy vision, you see you woke up a minute before your alarm anyway. You groan and throw your head back on the pillow, allowing the trill of your phone to break loose.
Except...
You notice a roomy crater next to you, where someone should have been. This confuses you enough to sit up a little, yawning and finally turning off the alarm. There's a wonderful smell wafting from the wide sliding entrance to your bedroom. Savory breakfast meats and sweet syrup.
The floor of your second story apartment creaks, the sliding door shakes a little with each resounding plop of a foot against the hardwood floor...
And in bursts Volibear, nudging the door open with his muzzle because his paws are carrying a tray of food. It looks comically small held against his chest, which contracts in as he scrunched to fit under the doorframe, then expands out large and strong once he returns to full height. A plume of steam follows him from the cup of strong coffee fitted into the tray's cupholder.
"Morning, sleepyhead!" He says, in his gruff, early-morning voice. He called you a sleepyhead despite you waking up on time--in fact, you were a minute early, and you let him know as much. Or you think you do: all the words come out in a single, jumbled string of grumbles.
Regardless, Volibear can translate you easily, and the air seems to rumble as he chuckles, as if you were feeling the bass of a wonderful and powerful song. Before handing the tray over, he trudges over to the windowsill and throws the curtains up. You whimper loudly and complain straightaway.
"Come on now," Volibear chastises, "today's the big day." He sets the tray over your lap, and waves a paw in a gesture that means eat.
You take up a piece of bacon. It is perfectly crispy, each bite explodes with the flavor bacon should quintessentially have. You're turning squirrely while eating it, scrunching up and nibbling away as you maintain approving eye contact with your boyfriend.
He wiggles his rear a bit, steps back, and lays down on the floor. He's large enough to comfortable move his top half onto the futon and spectate, both paws wrapped up and propping up his muzzle. His eyes are twinkling with mirth. He smells a bit funky, having skipped a shower to make you breakfast, but it's not like you mind his dander anymore. He's so large, with snowy white fur that tapers off into opulent blue chitin at different intersections. The chitin can be hard as rock, or--if Volibear willed it, as he did now--soft enough to bend itself against the comforter rather than rip it apart. The bed does creak, though!
"You looked dismayed when I woke up," Volibear says as you eat. "Nightmare?"
Yes, it was a nightmare, you explain. A really real one where things were awkward and hopeless.
He smiles reassuringly, cocking his head to the side. "Hm, realistic? Then, in a way, you've gotten some key practice on what not to do!"
You vehemently assert that it's not so easy for you to be confident, like he is. You don't weigh three fourths of a ton and pack enough muscle to flip a hummer. In fact, you're quite weak, and if that dream was supposed to be practice, all it did was make you feel worse.
His eyes soften at your self deprecation.
"Hey... you're stronger than you know." He slides up a bit. "Not to describe myself as quite the catch, but I am Freljord mythos, in a way... and rather than run around roaring on top of snow peaks or smacking around star children every day, you drew me in, made me want to be together with you--and smack around star children on the weekends. I love you. These people at work, they only need to like ya. This'll be a cinch."
You chuckle, but also tear up. The stress has really made you emotional. So has this dumb, lovable bear who's moved in... to the apartment and your heart.
Easily and carefully, he steals the tray away hardly-touched, setting it on the nightstand for later. What's needed now is not food, but cuddles. He nestles up against your, his great furred cheek brushing against your head, coarse yet impossible gentle. Each hair feels like a needle on a hoar-bristle brush that's perfectly scratching an itch you never knew was there. Your hands reach out for him, curling around his thermal body that's hotter than breakfast, than morning coffee. He comes up even farther, and presses his nose into your forehead. Strangely, the job interview doesn't seem like a problem anymore.
The reverie is broken, however, by a loud knock at the door. Volibear whips around, listening to the unique way the knocker alternates between slams with his knuckles center-mass and slaps against the frame.
"That bastard, not today," Volibear snarls. He launches out of bed with a deftness you've rarely seen, and takes a comically tint aluminum bat from the open closet. He's thumping towards the knocker, before you can even think to pull the covers up to hide your disheveled pajamas.
The donor's latch flicks and a gust of yells follow.
"A bear, in a middle-income contemporary relationship?! PREPOSTEROUS!" The senile old man yells. "This fantasy is so hamfisted--"
"This is the last time, Zilean, you old bat!" Volibear then takes his old bat up into the air with a woosh. It comes down with a thud and the time wizard cries out, falling to the ground before skittering off to lick his wounded pride--judging by the sound, Volibear simply demonstrated his strength against the carpeted living room floor.
While your boyfriend hurls insults at Zilean, your phone rings.
A deep crackling growl almost shatters your eardrum the moment you answer.
GRAAAA CCKKK GROWLLL
(Hello? Have I reached the heartbreaker?)
Your palms go cold. How did your ex, rek'sai, even get this number?! You calmly state that you have no interest in talking.
GREEEEE CLICKCLICKGRRRCK...
(Of course you don't but I am the new CFO of an interesting little company...)
GRRRRACK.
(Where a certain bastard's application flitted across my desk.)
It couldn't be. You raise a hand to cover a yelp. Rek'sai, your crazy ex... is now your new potential boss?! You stutter out a question, desperate for clarification.
Of course, she just chitters and goes:
GRUUUUNK
(See you this afternoon!)
Volibear, now panting, stumbles into the bedroom. He gives you a clueless look.
"What's up?"
TO BE CONTINUED...
