Chapter 1: A Tender Awakening
Willum wakes to the sun in his eyes, and his tiny friends moving around on his body, a soft, tired smile pulling his lips as his arm moves to cover his eyes from the sun. The light was relentless, slicing through the gap in the curtains and painting the backs of his eyelids orange. He breathed in slowly, the familiar, comforting scents of his room filling his lungs—old books, cedar from the workshop below, and the faint, clean smell of laundry soap.
Movement flickered across his skin like whispers.
Under the worn cotton sheet, a delicate weight shifted on his stomach, a small, warm pressure. Another traced a slow, deliberate path along his collarbone. He knew the rhythms of each by heart.
“He’s awake,” a voice murmured, close to his ear. It was Patrick, his tone a mix of amusement and certainty. Willum felt the brush of the pipkin’s tail, sleek and cool, against the side of his neck.
“I am,” Willum said, his voice a sleep-rough rumble in his chest. He didn’t move his arm, savoring the moment, this daily ritual of return. He felt Josh’s tiny hands, calloused and sure, grasping strands of his chest hair, not pulling, just holding on as if taking a bearing. A soft, rhythmic tugging followed—braiding. On the other side, a lighter, more meticulous touch worked with silken precision. Tyler.
On his stomach, just below his sternum, Patrick settled. Willum felt the press of the pipkin’s full body, a reassuring anchor. Then came the feather-light brush of lips against his skin, a tiny, kissed greeting. Willum’s smile widened.
From the dip of his pelvis, another voice, clear and measured, began to read aloud. “The structural integrity of interspecies architecture is not merely a question of scale, but of perceptual sympathy,” Malcolm recited, the words crisp even at his size. Willum pictured him, glasses perched, his longer tail curled around himself for stability, a micro-edition open in his lap.
“Morning reading’s gotten pretty heavy, Mal,” Willum murmured.
“It’s important context for your commissioned work,” Malcolm replied, without pausing. “You’re building a library shelf for a collector in Brookside. His perceptual sympathy is apparently lacking, according to this. He complained about the vibrational dissonance of his last carpenter’s dovetail joints.”
Josh laughed, a bright, chirping sound from somewhere near Willum’s right pec. “Sounds like a guy who’d have a stick up his—”
“Joshua,” Patrick chided, but Willum could hear the grin in his voice.
“What? Willum’s joints are perfect. No vibrational… whatever.” To prove his point, Josh scurried upward, his incredibly strong tail whipping for balance, until he was perched on the swell of Willum’s pectoral muscle. Willum finally lowered his arm, blinking against the light, and looked down his own body.
The sight never got old. There was Josh, grinning, his shaggy brown hair wild, one foot planted boldly. Tyler peeked out from the forest of chest hair just below, his grey eyes soft, a single strand of dark hair neatly braided and tied off with an invisible thread. Malcolm sat cross-legged in the hollow of Willum’s hips, his sandy hair catching the sun, a tiny book open in his hands. And Patrick lay on his stomach on Willum’s solar plexus, chin propped on his hands, his dark green eyes watching Willum’s face with fond, familiar scrutiny.
“You were dreaming again,” Patrick stated. His sleek red tail lay coiled beside him, the tip twitching.
“Was I?”
“Your breathing changed. Got all slow and sad.” Patrick’s gaze was unwavering. “You sighed. Twice.”
Willum’s heart gave a small, tight squeeze. They noticed everything. He lifted a hand, a massive thing in their world, and brought it slowly toward his chest. He extended a single finger, and Patrick immediately leaned into the touch, pressing his cheek against Willum’s fingerprint. Willum stroked the pipkin’s back with a careful fingertip.
“Just a dream,” Willum said. It was mostly true. The feeling of it, a hollow echo of being left in an empty, silent house, lingered more than any specific imagery.
“Hmm.” Patrick didn’t sound convinced. His tail uncoiled, snaking out with swift, practiced ease. It wrapped once, possessively, around Willum’s left nipple, giving a sharp, pointed squeeze.
Willum jumped, a jolt of sensation shooting through him. “Hey!”
“That’s for sighing,” Patrick said, a mischievous glint in his eye. “This is yours. We’re here. No sad sighs allowed until at least noon.”
From his perch, Josh crowed with laughter and launched himself, using his tail to swing to Willum’s shoulder. Tyler, emboldened, scampered up with silent, dexterous grace, coming to rest in his favorite spot, tucked in the small space behind Willum’s ear. He immediately began to fiddle with the short hairs there, his touch calming.
“Patrick has a point, albeit crudely delivered,” Malcolm said, marking his page with a thread and setting the book aside. He stood, stretching his arms over his head, his own tail flexing. “The Brookside client is expecting a video consult at ten. And you promised the new climbing rig for Josh’s gym by Friday. The prototype is still in the workshop.”
“I know, I know,” Willum said, sitting up slowly, a mountain rising from the landscape of rumpled blankets. The pipkins rode the shift with the ease of long practice, Josh clinging to his collar, Tyler nestling deeper into his hair, Malcolm holding onto a fold of his t-shirt, and Patrick simply riding the incline of his chest, tail still loosely anchored.
Willum swung his legs over the side of the bed, his feet hitting the cool hardwood floor. The workshop scent was stronger here, drifting up through the floorboards. Home. His home. Theirs.
He carried them to the kitchen, a gentle giant with his world on his shoulders and in his hair. He made coffee, the machine grumbling and hissing, while Malcolm recited the day’s schedule from memory and Josh debated the merits of different climbing holds. Tyler remained quiet, a comforting, present weight, and Patrick had migrated to his shoulder, legs dangling, watching the room.
It was perfect. It was everything.
Which is why the tightness in his chest refused to fully unravel. This was borrowed, wasn’t it? A beautiful, fragile arrangement. They had their own brilliant, busy lives—Patrick editing novels, Malcolm negotiating contracts, Josh coaching kids, Tyler creating art that sold in galleries he’d never see. They stayed because he was safe, because he’d been there when no one else was. But safe wasn’t the same as chosen forever. One day, a better offer, a bigger life, would come for each of them.
“Willum.” Patrick’s voice, uncharacteristically gentle, broke into his thoughts. The pipkin had climbed up to the shell of his ear, opposite Tyler. “You’re doing it again.”
“Sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry. Be here.” Patrick’s small hand patted his neck. “We are.”
The video consult with the Brookside pipkin was, as Malcolm predicted, an exercise in excessive specificity. The client, a pompous little man with a monocle, fretted over grain direction and “auditory harmonics.” Willum nodded patiently, with Malcolm perched on the edge of the laptop camera frame, seamlessly translating the client’s pretensions into actual, buildable requirements.
Afterwards, Willum descended to the workshop. It was his sanctuary, full of the smell of sawdust and oil. He lost himself in the rhythmic shush of the plane, the solid thunk of the mallet. Josh tested the new climbing holds he was carving, scaling the workshop wall with dizzying speed, calling down critiques. Tyler sat on a high shelf, sketching the scene below—the curl of a wood shaving, the arc of Willum’s arm, the blurred form of Josh in motion.
The peace was profound. The fear receded, soothed by the simple, physical truth of creation and companionship.
It was shattered by the sound of the front door buzzer.
Everyone froze. Unannounced visitors were rare. Malcolm, ever the steward, scurried down the workbench and up Willum’s leg, tail flicking with alertness. “I’ll get it.”
He returned minutes later, his usual composure frayed. He was carrying a small, formal-looking envelope, sealed with wax. He scaled Willum’s jeans and held it up.
“It’s a courier. For you. From the city.” Malcolm’s vibrant green eyes were serious. “The crest is the Mattison family seal.”
Josh, who had frozen mid-climb, dropped silently to the workbench. All the color drained from his face. The Mattisons were his parents, the ones who had deemed a son who preferred climbing trees to boardroom tables a “genetic disappointment” and cut him off.
“Don’t open it,” Josh whispered, his boundless energy gone, replaced by a cold dread.
Willum took the envelope, his large fingers making the delicate paper seem absurd. The wax seal was intricate, imposing. It felt heavy, a thousand pounds in his hand. This was it, he thought, the cold fear now a tsunami in his gut. This was how it began. Not with a bang, but with a formal letter. A summons back to a world that had space for pipkins, but not for pipkins like theirs. One by one, the letters would come, the proper families reclaiming their wayward sons, and he’d be left in the quiet.
He opened the trashcan in the corner of his shop and dropped it in.
He would not let the thoughts into his sanctuary.
The envelope sat in the trash, a white corner visible against the wood shavings and a discarded coffee filter. The silence in the workshop was thick, a physical thing pressing against the usual comfortable sounds of work. Josh hadn’t moved from the workbench. He was staring at his own hands, his tail lying limp beside him.
Malcom cleared his throat, a tiny, precise sound. “It was addressed solely to you, Willum. Not to Joshua. That’s… noteworthy.”
“Doesn’t matter,” Josh said, his voice flat. “If they’re talking to you, it’s about me. It’s always about me.” He finally looked up, his blue eyes wide with a fear that was years old. “They want something. Or they’re causing trouble. They don’t just… communicate.”
Patrick, from his perch on a hanging lamp, swung down by his tail, landing lightly next to Josh. He didn’t offer empty comfort. He just sat shoulder-to-shoulder with him, a solid presence. “Then it’s garbage. And garbage is where it is.”
Tyler, from the shelf, set his sketchpad down. With a fluid, silent drop, he used his tail to lower himself onto Willum’s broad shoulder. He didn’t speak. He just pressed his small form against the side of Willum’s neck, his long hair braid brushing the skin.
Willum took a deep, steadying breath. The scent of cedar filled his lungs, grounding him. He turned back to the half-finished climbing hold, picking up his carving knife. The handle was smooth, familiar. “Malcom’s right. It came to me. I’ll deal with it.” He forced a lightness into his tone he didn’t feel. “Right now, this maple isn’t going to shape itself. Josh, this curve here—does it feel right for an overhead grip?”
It was an offering, a lifeline back to normalcy. Josh stared at him for a long second, then uncoiled, a flicker of his usual energy returning. He scampered up Willum’s arm and onto the wood block, his hands running over the contours. “It’s… yeah. It’s good. Maybe a little more bevel on the lower edge for the pinky. Less fatigue on a long hang.”
“Got it.”
Willum continued his work, though he could feel the slight shift in the air: he knew they could feel his weariness, even if they didn't comment.