Chapter 16: The Farewell Feast
The day became a living monument to Josh. Willum cleared his schedule, a rare thing, and the house shifted into a new, deliberate rhythm.
It started in the living room, with Josh standing on Willum’s outstretched palm, grinning at the sudden, absolute focus. “Okay,” Patrick said, perched on Willum’s knee. “Rules for today: no ‘sorrys,’ no ‘be carefuls.’ The mountain is open for business.”
Willum smiled, a slow, easy thing. “All access pass. No limits.”
A flicker of something grateful and fierce passed through Josh’s blue eyes. Then he was moving, a blur of dark hair and tan fabric. He launched himself from the palm, his tail hooking around Willum’s thumb to swing his body onto the inside of Willum’s wrist. He climbed, not with the frantic energy of a game, but with a reverent, exploring pace. He traced the blue lines of veins under skin, scaled the cliff-face of a forearm muscle, dug his fingers into the dip of Willum’s elbow to pull himself up.
Willum watched, his breath slow, letting his arm become landscape. He felt every grip, every shift of weight, the light drag of Josh’s tail as it swept for balance. It was a silent conversation in pressure and trust.
Malcolm and Patrick joined, not as climbers, but as companions. Malcolm walked alongside Josh’s ascent, his longer tail keeping steadying contact with Josh’s back. Patrick simply stretched out along Willum’s bicep, sunning himself like a cat, his tail flicking Josh’s ankle in encouragement whenever he passed.
Tyler was the artist, documenting. From his perch near Willum’s ear, he used a tiny charcoal pencil on a scrap of paper, capturing the lines of strain in Willum’s skin, the determined set of Josh’s jaw.
“You’re drooling on my deltoid, Pat,” Willum murmured.
“It’s a saline seal of approval,” Patrick said, not opening his eyes.
Josh reached the summit of Willum’s shoulder and stood, hands on his hips, chest heaving. The view from there was familiar, but today it felt earned. He didn’t jump off. He turned, walked the tightrope of Willum’s collarbone, and then, with a whoop, slid down the slope of Willum’s chest, using his tail as a brake against the fabric of Willum’s shirt.
Willum jolted, a laugh exploding from him. “Hey!”
“All access!” Josh yelled, his voice muffled by cotton.
The morning dissolved into a gentle, persistent siege of affection. Willum, stretched out on the rug, became their continent. They swarmed him. Patrick and Malcolm took up positions on either side of his neck, their hands and tails combing through his short black hair, massaging his scalp until his eyelids fluttered. Their touches occasionally drifted, fingers tracing the shells of his ears, thumbs pressing gently behind his jaw. It was possessive and soothing.
Josh explored the more dynamic terrain. He used Willum’s ribs as a climbing wall, his fingers finding purchase in the gaps between bones. He swung from belt loops, did pull-ups on Willum’s raised kneecap. But increasingly, he just clung. He pressed his entire body against Willum’s stomach, his face buried against the warm skin where his shirt had ridden up, his tail laying flat and sweeping in slow, lazy arcs.
Each pass of that strong, flexible tail over Willum’s bare stomach sent a complex shiver through him. It wasn’t tickling, not exactly. It was a profound, almost overwhelming sensation of being claimed. His abdominal muscles tightened and released in an involuntary rhythm under the attention, his skin pebbling. He didn’t pull away. He let the shudder roll through him, a seismic response to a tiny, deliberate tremor.
“Lunch,” Malcolm announced finally, his own voice a little rough. The word broke the silent, heavy spell.
They ate on the living room floor, a picnic of simplicity. Willum had a whole sandwich. For them, he meticulously cut a grilled cheese into perfect, tiny squares, the melted cheese gooey between the crisp bread. They shared one plate, a chaotic, friendly tangle of limbs as they grabbed squares, dripped cheese on Willum’s rug, and laughed.
Josh, true to form, ate his share while sitting cross-legged in the dip of Willum’s stomach, his tail now curled possessively around Willum’s navel. Every so often, Willum would feel a gentle squeeze, a silent pulse of I’m here.
The afternoon bled into evening, the light turning thick and golden. They migrated to the couch, a heap of worn leather and worn-out bodies. Willum lay on his back, and they arranged themselves on the broad plain of his torso. Patrick claimed a spot over his heart, listening to its steady beat. Malcolm curled into the hollow under his arm, a book forgotten beside him. Tyler nestled in the space above his hip, one small hand splayed on Willum’s skin.
And Josh, spent and happy, lay full-length in the center of Willum’s stomach, his head pillowed on his arms, his tail finally still.
Willum’s hand came up, a giant’s canopy. He lowered it slowly, until his palm hovered just above them. He didn’t close it. He just let it be there, a roof of skin and bone. He felt the minute disturbance in the air as they breathed, the collective warmth rising to meet his hand.
One by one, their breathing deepened and slowed, syncing with the rise and fall of his own diaphragm.
Josh was the first to sleep. Willum knew by the sudden, utter heaviness of the small weight on his stomach, by the way the breathing there became a soft, open-mouthed puff against his skin. The others followed, until Willum was alone in the quiet, darkening room, a living bed for four dreaming souls.
He watched the ceiling, feeling the delicate architecture of their trust holding him together. The fear of the empty house tomorrow was a real, cold shape in the corner of the room. But it couldn’t touch this heat. Josh was leaving, yes. But he was leaving from here. From this exact spot of safety, marked today by touch and tail and trust.
Willum’s hand lowered the last millimeter, his fingers curling just slightly, not to cage them, but to cradle the space they occupied. He held the shape of their sleep against his skin, and for the first time, the thought of tomorrow didn’t feel like an ending, but a proof. They would come back. Because this, here, was the only place that fit them.
He closed his own eyes, the painted river on his hand hidden in the dark, and slept.
He closed his own eyes, the painted river on his hand hidden in the dark, and slept.
A skittering, like a frantic heartbeat, pulled him from the depths hours later. The room was still pitch, the silence absolute except for the soft breathing of Patrick, Malcolm, and Tyler scattered across his chest and pillow. The skittering came again, a distinct, crawling pressure right below his sternum. It was inside his shirt.
Willum blinked, disoriented. The pressure moved in a quick, zigzagging path across the sensitive skin of his abdomen. Tiny fingers. A swishing tail. It was followed by a muffled, excited hum.
Josh.
The climber was a live wire, buzzing with pre-dawn energy, trapped under a canopy of cotton. Every nerve in Willum’s stomach fired alerts, the sensations unbearably vivid in the dark. He swallowed a groan, not wanting to startle the others awake with his sudden tension. He could feel Josh’s intention, a kinetic need to move before the sun was even a thought.
With a slow, deliberate care that took all his patience, Willum slid his hand beneath his own shirt. His fingers found the small, wriggling form. Josh froze, then went pliant, understanding. Willum cupped him gently, drawing him into the cool room air.
Josh’s face was a pale, grinning moon in the darkness. “Sorry,” he whispered, though he didn’t sound it. “Just… awake.”
“I noticed,” Willum whispered back, his voice a sleep-ravaged rumble. He could feel the suppressed vibrations in the tiny body he held. Putting Josh down would mean noise, a disruption. Letting him continue his trek across the bed would wake everyone.
A solution, soft and instinctual, presented itself. Willum brought his hand to his own face, his warm breath washing over his fingers. He met Josh’s bright, eager eyes. He tipped his palm.
Josh didn’t hesitate. He stepped off, a tiny, trusting diver, into the dark, warm cavern of Willum’s mouth.
The world changed. For Josh, it was a sudden, humid universe of overwhelming texture. The slick, soft plains of Willum’s inner cheeks. The imposing, smooth ridges of his teeth. The wet, spongy terrain of his tongue, vast and shifting beneath him. It was silent, intimate, and profoundly safe. He could wriggle, explore, burn off his energy against the yielding flesh without a single sound escaping.
For Willum, it was an act of pure, trusting containment. The weight was negligible, but the presence was monumental. He felt the scramble of small feet, the press of hands bracing against his palate, the swish of a tail tracing the curve of a lower tooth. It was not consumption; it was sanctuary. He kept his jaw slightly open, his breathing steady and deep through his nose, cradling the lively warmth on his tongue.
He tasted the faint, clean scent of Josh’s skin, the cotton of his sleep clothes. He felt a tiny, joyous shiver race through the small form. There was no fear, only focused discovery. A foot pressed against the back of his front teeth. Fingers traced the dip behind his lower lip.
Outside, the first grey hint of dawn began to outline the window. Inside, in the private, liquid dark, Josh celebrated his last morning home with a quiet, tactile dance. Willum lay perfectly still, his own excitement for the day momentarily forgotten, utterly captivated by the boundless, whispering trust resting in his mouth.
Willum lay perfectly still, his own excitement for the day momentarily forgotten, utterly captivated by the boundless, whispering trust resting in his mouth. The rhythmic, soft exploration of his tongue’s surface was a lulling pulse. His breathing, deep and steady through his nose, filled his own head with a sound like distant tide.
His heavy eyelids, already weighed by the late hour and the emotional saturation of the day, drifted shut. Just for a second. The darkness behind them was warmer, deeper. Josh’s movements became a gentle, hypnotic kneading. Willum’s jaw relaxed a fraction more. The tide of his breathing slowed, deepened.
A soft, resonant snore vibrated up from the dark throat beneath Josh.
The tiny climber froze, hands pressed against the ridged roof of Willum’s mouth. The sound was a deep, subterranean tremor through the flesh surrounding him. He knew that sound. Willum was out.
A spike of instinctual alarm flashed through Josh—a primal jolt at being enclosed in a cave that had just fallen asleep. He shoved it down. This was Willum. The fear was immediately replaced by a sharper, more urgent concern. Willum would wake up and panic. He’d be terrified he’d hurt him, or worse, that Josh had been scared.
Josh couldn’t call out. He couldn’t climb a tooth to signal. The sleeping giant’s tongue was a soft, wet hill beneath him. The idea formed in a flash, leveraging his climber’s understanding of terrain and pressure.
He needed to be safer, and he needed to tell Willum he was okay, in the only language available.
With a careful, fluid shift, Josh scooted down the slope of the tongue. The humid air grew hotter, closer. The snore came again, a low gust that fluttered his hair. He reached the fleshy join where the tongue met the floor of Willum’s mouth. Here was an overhang, a protected space.
He ducked under.
The world became a tight, silken pocket of profound heat and overwhelming taste. The skin here was incredibly soft, a sensitive membrane thrumming with the beat of a major artery just beneath. Josh pressed his whole body into it, a full-length nuzzle. He wriggled, not to escape, but to communicate.
He pushed his back against the underside of Willum’s tongue, kneading the muscle with his shoulders. He swept his tail in broad, firm strokes along the tender floor. It was a deliberate, vigorous massage from the inside, a morse code of movement saying I’m here, I’m fine, I’m just moving.
Willum’s subconscious registered the change in pressure, the specific, localized agitation. The snoring hitched. In his dreamless sleep, his tongue instinctively lifted and pressed down, a sleepy search for the source of the sensation. It gently pinned Josh for a moment in the warm, wet dark.
Josh didn’t fight it. He turned his head and rubbed his cheek against the imprisoning flesh, a deliberate, affectionate grind. He pushed upwards with his hands, a steady, reassuring pressure.
The tongue slowly relaxed its hold, settling back but remaining alert, a half-aware guardian. Josh resumed his energetic nuzzling, a one-pipkin festival of friction and warmth, burning his pre-dawn fuel against the only walls he had. Every wriggle was a promise. See? I’m just being me. I’m safe.