Chapter 25: The Flower Plot Proposal
The Saturday sun was a gentle warmth on Travis’s back, not the fierce glare of the weekdays. He knelt in the rich, damp earth of the vegetable bed, the cuffs of his old jeans stained dark. The Fitzgerald project was archived, the new concepts sent without a follow-up complaint—yet—and the woodworking logo was sketched and waiting for Monday’s polish. For now, there was only the scent of turned soil, the quiet snap of weed roots giving way, and the soft, shuffling sounds of Mavis exploring the jungle of flowering herbs nearby.
Travis worked with a methodical calm, his fingers digging, pulling, shaking loose the soil from tangled mats of chickweed and stubborn dandelion taproots. The anxiety that had coiled in his gut since Tuesday was still present, but dormant, a sleeping creature he was careful not to disturb. He focused on the simple, tactile satisfaction of clearing a space for what was meant to grow.
A sharp, awed whisper cut through the hum of a distant lawnmower. “Travis.”
It was Mavis’s cautious voice, the one he used when confronted with something wondrous and potentially terrifying. Travis paused, a fistful of purslane in his hand. “Hm?”
“Come see. But be slow.”
Travis brushed his hands on his thighs and shifted on his knees, peering through the forest of lavender spikes and woody thyme. Mavis stood at the edge of a flagstone path, frozen in a half-crouch, his tail held stiffly behind him. He was staring at a fissure between two stones.
“What is it?” Travis asked, keeping his voice low.
“It’s… a tank. A shiny, black tank with legs. And antennae. Big ones.”
A smile touched Travis’s lips. “It’s just a beetle, Mav.”
“A big one,” Mavis countered, his ears swiveling forward. His initial fear seemed to be warring with intense curiosity. His tail gave a tentative, curious flick. “It’s just… standing there. Looking at me. I think it’s judging my life choices.”
Travis suppressed a chuckle. He reached for the small, rusty trowel beside him. “Here. Let’s give it a lift. It’s probably lost.” He crawled forward, moving with exaggerated slowness so as not to startle either of them. He reached Mavis’s side and looked down.
The beetle was indeed impressive—a glossy, rotund ground beetle, nearly as long as Mavis’s foot. It stood its ground, antennae waving slowly, a miniature armored vehicle parked between continents of stone.
“See?” Mavis whispered. “A tank.”
“A harmless tank,” Travis murmured. He carefully slid the tip of the trowel into the crack, just in front of the beetle. “Alright, friend. Up you go.” He gave a slight nudge. The beetle scrambled onto the metal blade with a faint, scrabbling sound. Mavis took two quick steps back, then edged forward again, mesmerized.
Travis lifted the trowel, keeping it level. The beetle paced the confines of the metal, a prisoner on a plate. “Where to, captain?” Travis asked.
Mavis thought for a second, his nose twitching. “The compost. It’s full of rolly things. He’ll have friends there. And plenty to eat that isn’t… my toes.”
“Good call.” Travis stood slowly, carrying the trowel at a careful, steady pace across the yard to the open-topped compost bin. He tipped the beetle gently onto a mound of coffee grounds and wilted lettuce. It immediately burrowed into the dark, moist matter and disappeared.
“Mission accomplished,” Travis said, brushing his hands together.
Mavis scampered up Travis’s leg, using belt loops and pockets as footholds, until he was perched on his shoulder. He leaned his head against Travis’s neck. “Thanks. He was cool, but I like my toes un-judged by invertebrates.”
Travis reached up and stroked Mavis’s back with a single finger. The fur was warm from the sun. “Anytime.”
They settled into a comfortable silence. Travis returned to weeding, and Mavis eventually slid down to sit cross-legged on the soft grass of the path, watching Travis’s hands work and plucking the occasional tiny clover flower. The sun climbed higher, the warmth deepening. Travis felt a bead of sweat trace a path down his spine. The physical work was a good tired, the kind that soaked into muscles and quieted the mind.
After a while, Mavis spoke, his voice soft. “You’re quiet today.”
“Just tired,” Travis said, sitting back on his heels and surveying the cleared bed. “The good kind.”
“Not the bad kind?”
“Not the bad kind.” Travis looked at him. Mavis was gazing out beyond the fenced yard, toward the rooftops of the neighborhood. There was a wistful, almost wary set to his small shoulders. “What about you? You’re quiet, too.”
Mavis shrugged, a tiny, delicate motion. “The garden is big. The world is bigger.” He paused. “That lady. The toast-burner. She came from out there.”
Travis felt a faint, familiar twinge in his stomach at the reminder, but it was distant, manageable. “She did. But most people out there aren’t like her. The woodworking people seem nice.”
“I know,” Mavis said, but his tone was unconvinced. He pulled his tail into his lap, running his small hands over the silky fur. “It’s just… loud. Out there. And it can come knocking.”
Travis understood. His own walls were both sanctuary and prison. For Mavis, the walls were the whole world, and the garden was a vast, exposed frontier. “It’s safe here,” Travis said gently. “The fence is high. The gate is locked. And I’m here.”
Mavis looked up at him, his large eyes catching the light. “I know.” He uncurled and walked over, pressing himself against Travis’s grubby wrist. The contact was simple and profound. “I like it when you’re here.”
The simplicity of the statement undid something in Travis’s chest. He carefully picked Mavis up, cradling him in his dirty palm, and brought him to eye level. “I like it when you’re here, too. Even when you’re hiding from beetles.”
Mavis stuck his tiny tongue out. Then he leaned forward, pressing his forehead against the bridge of Travis’s nose in a soft, deliberate nuzzle. “You smell like dirt and green things.”
“You smell like sunshine and fur.”
They stayed like that for a long moment, a silent pact in the dappled light. Finally, Travis lowered his hand. “I’m parched. Want to help me make some lemonade? The real kind, with the sugary syrup.”
Mavis’s ears perked up. “From the little lemons on the tree?”
“The very same.”
The indoor coolness was a shock to their sun-warmed skin. Travis washed his hands at the kitchen sink, watching Mavis scale the faucet to get a drink of his own from the slow drip. The simple domesticity of it—the dirty hands, the shared task, the quiet companionship—filled the space left by the week’s turmoil.
He juiced the lemons, Mavis handing him the halved fruits one by one from the fruit bowl with theatrical effort. He made a simple syrup, and Mavis watched the sugar crystals dissolve with intense focus, as if witnessing alchemy. They stirred it all together with cold water in a tall glass pitcher, the clink of the spoon a happy sound.
Travis poured two glasses—one large, one thimble-sized, a souvenir from a dollhouse—and they carried them to the living room. Travis slumped into the corner of the sofa, and Mavis claimed his usual spot on the armrest, legs dangling over the side as he sipped from his tiny cup.
The lemonade was tart and sweet, perfectly cold. Travis drank half his glass in long, satisfying gulps. The cool liquid felt like peace spreading through him. He hadn’t realized how thirsty he was. He hadn’t realized how hungry he was, either. The broth from yesterday, the toast this morning—it had all been fuel, consumed under duress. Now, a real appetite, a wanting, was stirring.
“I’m going to make spaghetti,” he announced, the decision solidifying as he said it.
Mavis looked over, a drop of lemonade glistening on his chin. “Right now?”
“Right now. The real kind. With garlic and oil and too much parsley.” It was a meal that required chopping, smelling, tasting. A meal that couldn’t be rushed.
Mavis watched him, his expression unreadable for a moment. Then a slow, bright smile spread across his small face. It was a smile of pure, unguarded delight. “Okay,” he said, as if Travis had just declared a holiday. He scampered down from the armrest and across the cushions, settling in the nest of Travis’s tousled black hair. “I’ll supervise. No burnt garlic this time.”
Travis laughed, a real, easy sound that felt unfamiliar in his own throat. “No burnt garlic,” he promised, finishing his lemonade in one last, sweet swallow. He stood, Mavis clinging to his hair like a tiny, furry cap, and walked to the kitchen. The sunlight through the window painted the clean countertops in gold. He pulled a knife from the block, selected a plump head of garlic, and began to peel.
The first clove thumped onto the cutting board. The scent, pungent and promising, filled the air. Mavis chirred his approval from above. Travis picked up the knife, and for the first time in days, his hands were perfectly, utterly still.
The knife came down in a smooth, confident rock, crushing the garlic with a satisfying crunch. The fragrant oil shimmered in the pan, waiting. Travis sprinkled in a pinch of red pepper flakes, watching them darken and sizzle. "The secret," he said, his voice a low rumble, "is to barely let the garlic color."
Mavis, perched on the spice rack, swayed slightly with the rhythm of Travis’s movements. "It smells like a real place. Not like toast-burner's office." His nose twitched constantly, sampling the air.
"Her office probably smells like regret and expensive toner." Travis scooped the minced garlic into the oil, and the kitchen filled with its immediate, pungent song. He gave the pan a gentle shake. "This smells like a Saturday should."
He reached for the bundle of parsley, his fingers brushing past Mavis on the shelf. Instead of pulling back, he let his index finger stroke gently down the length of Mavis’s back, from the nape of his neck to the base of his tail. The touch was slow, deliberate. Mavis froze, a tiny shiver running through him.
"Sorry," Travis murmured, not sounding sorry at all. He began chopping the parsley, the rapid tap-tap-tap filling the silence. "You were just right there. Looking very... supervisory."
Mavis let out a held breath. "I am supervisory." His voice was a little higher than usual.
"Of course you are." Travis scraped the parsley into a bowl. He lifted the colander of cooked spaghetti, steam clouding his face. "Best supervisor I've ever had. Very demanding. Incredibly cute."
He said it so casually, while focusing on draining the pasta. Mavis made a small, choked sound. Travis glanced over to see the mouse-man clutching the rim of the oregano jar, his ears flushed a deep pink.
"Don't," Mavis squeaked.
"Don't what?" Travis asked innocently, tossing the spaghetti into the garlicky oil. The sizzle was loud and aggressive. "Don't tell the truth? It's a known fact. Best. Supervisor. Ever." He said each word with a quiet, playful emphasis as he worked the pasta through the oil. "Also has the best tail. Best ears. Objectively."
"Travis." Mavis's protest was a whisper. He had shrunk down, trying to hide behind the jar.
Travis finished tossing the spaghetti, turned off the heat, and showered the dish with the bright green parsley. He wiped his hands on a towel. Then, with a calmness that belied the intimate charge in the air, he walked to the spice rack and extended his palm, not beside Mavis, but directly in front of him, an open invitation.
Mavis looked from the hand to Travis's face, which held a soft, knowing smile. After a beat of stunned hesitation, he stepped onto the warm skin. Travis didn't carry him to the table. He brought his hand up close to his own chest, cradling Mavis in the space between his collarbone and his heartbeat.
"You do it on purpose," Mavis mumbled into his shirt.
"Do what?" Travis’s voice vibrated through his chest. He used his thumb to trace the curve of Mavis's back, a slow, sweeping caress.
"This. The... talking. The touching. It's different."
"Is it?" Travis brought a forkful of spaghetti to his mouth, chewing thoughtfully. He swallowed. "Maybe I'm just finally breathing again. And noticing things." He took another bite, then looked down at the small form pressed against him. "Like how you get quiet and still when you're flustered. It’s my new favorite thing."
Mavis hid his face completely, a warm, furry weight against Travis's sternum. Travis just held him there, one hand steadily eating, the other a secure, gentle cradle. He didn't elaborate. He just let the statement hang in the air, mingling with the scent of garlic and parsley.
He ate half the plate like that, sharing the comfortable silence. His free hand never stopped its gentle motion, tracing idle patterns along Mavis’s spine and shoulders. Each stroke seemed to sink the mouse-man deeper into a state of stunned, blushing contentment.
Finally, Travis set his fork down with a soft clink. "You should eat something too," he said, his tone practical but his touch anything but. "I know you've been stealing pine nuts again. That's not a balanced diet for a world-class supervisor."
He didn't move Mavis to the table. Instead, he plucked a single strand of spaghetti from his plate, carefully blew on it, and held it near his chest. Mavis, after a moment, turned his head and took a small, tentative bite. He chewed slowly, avoiding Travis's gaze.
"Good?" Travis asked, his voice a whisper near his own shoulder.
Mavis nodded, his whiskers brushing Travis's skin. Travis fed him another bite, then another, the intimacy of the act so profound it rendered the large, sunlit kitchen utterly silent. The fork was forgotten. The world narrowed to the steady heartbeat under Mavis's feet and the shared, simple meal.
When the strand was finished, Travis dipped his pinky finger into the olive oil pooled at the edge of his plate. He offered the glistening tip to Mavis, who licked it clean without thought, his tiny tongue quick and warm. The action was so trusting, so automatic, that it stole Travis's breath.
He looked down, his teasing composure melting into something raw and tender. "Mav," he said, the name barely a sound.
Mavis finally looked up, his eyes wide and dark.
Travis didn't use words. He simply bent his head and, with infinite care, pressed his lips to the top of Mavis's head, right between his soft, velvety ears. He held the kiss for three long heartbeats, a seal of absolute affection.
When he straightened, Mavis was utterly motionless. Then, a tremor went through him. He burrowed violently into the folds of Travis's shirt, a soft, overwhelmed noise escaping him. His tiny hands fisted the fabric.
Travis smiled, a real, quiet thing that reached his eyes. He resumed eating his now-lukewarm spaghetti, his other hand coming up to cup completely over the small, hidden form, holding him safe in a warm, dark cave of skin and cotton.
He resumed eating his now-lukewarm spaghetti, his other hand coming up to cup completely over the small, hidden form, holding him safe in a warm, dark cave of skin and cotton. He could feel the rapid, birdlike heartbeat against his palm gradually slow into a contented, sleepy rhythm. Travis ate methodically, the flavors of garlic and lemon and parsley registering as distant, pleasant echoes. His focus was split between the mechanics of swallowing and the profound weight in his hand.
The fork felt heavier with each bite. The initial, genuine hunger that had propelled him through cooking was ebbing, replaced by a familiar, leaden fullness that had nothing to do with his stomach’s capacity. It was a mental wall, thick and sudden. He looked at his plate. He’d made it through about three-quarters of the food. The remaining pasta looked congealed, unappealing. His throat tightened.
He set the fork down with a soft clink. The sound seemed too loud. “That’s me done,” he said, his voice deliberately light, a forced casualness he knew Mavis would see through.
The small weight in his cupped hand shifted. Mavis’s head emerged from the neckline of Travis’s shirt, his fur ruffled, his eyes searching Travis’s face. He didn’t ask if Travis was sure. He didn’t comment on the leftover food. He just nodded, a tiny, understanding dip of his chin. Then he scrambled down, using Travis’s sleeve like a fire pole, landing softly on the table beside the plate.
“Plenty left,” Mavis observed, his tone neutral, practical. He walked to the edge of the plate, his tail flicking behind him. He glanced up at Travis, a question in his dark eyes.
“All yours,” Travis said, the words a little thick. He watched, a complex knot of shame and relief in his chest, as Mavis stepped onto the wide ceramic rim. The mouse-man didn’t use utensils. He knelt, picked up a single strand of spaghetti in his small hands, and began to eat. He ate neatly, efficiently, making his way through a small portion of the remaining food. He plucked at a piece of garlic, nibbled a fragment of parsley. It wasn’t about cleaning the plate. It was a ritual. A shared completion.
Travis watched the meticulous, quiet consumption. The shame loosened, replaced by a weary gratitude. This was their language. This was the answer to the unasked question, Was it enough?
When Mavis finished, he wiped his hands on the leg of his own tiny trousers—a gesture so absurdly human it made Travis’s heart clench—and hopped off the plate. He didn’t return to Travis’s shoulder. Instead, he walked across the table and placed both hands on Travis’s forearm, leaning his weight into it. “Couch,” he stated. It wasn’t a suggestion.
Travis pushed back from the table, the chair legs scraping the floor. He stood, his body feeling both heavy and unmoored. Mavis scampered up his arm, settling in the crook of his neck, a warm, living scarf. Travis didn’t clear the dishes. He walked out of the kitchen, through the quiet hallway, and into the softer light of the living room.
He sank into the corner of the sofa, the old cushions sighing around him. The afternoon sun slanted through the blinds, painting tiger stripes on the rug. Mavis immediately squirmed out from his neck-nook and climbed onto Travis’s chest, his small feet pressing through the fabric of the shirt. He walked up to the hollow of Travis’s throat and stared down at him, his expression serious.
“You made food,” Mavis said, his voice low and firm. “You ate most of it. It stayed down.” He listed the facts like achievements, each one a brick in a defensive wall.
“I did,” Travis whispered, his hands coming up to rest loosely on his own stomach.
“Good.” Mavis’s tone left no room for argument. Then his demeanor shifted. The stern caretaker melted away, replaced by the playful, boundary-pushing creature Travis knew so well. A sly glint entered his eyes. “Now, the reward.”
Before Travis could process the words, Mavis moved. He ducked his head and pressed his face into the sensitive space where Travis’s jaw met his neck. He didn’t just nuzzle; he rubbed his cheeks and forehead there, his silky fur and the gentle scratch of his whiskers sending a cascade of shivers down Travis’s spine. Travis let out a shaky breath, his eyes fluttering closed.
“That’s one,” Mavis murmured, his voice vibrating against Travis’s skin. He journeyed downward, his small hands gripping the collar of Travis’s shirt for balance. He pushed the fabric aside and repeated the motion over Travis’s collarbone, the affectionate abrasion so focused and intense it felt like a brand. A good brand. A claiming.
“Two,” Mavis announced, his breath warm. He continued his path, down the center of Travis’s chest. The touch was grounding, overwhelming, a tactile anchor that dragged Travis out of his buzzing head and into the raw reality of his body. He trembled, a full-body shudder that was part tension, part release.
Mavis reached the soft plane of Travis’s stomach. He paused, his tiny hands splayed over the fabric. He looked up, meeting Travis’s half-lidded gaze. “You did the hard thing,” he said, his voice losing its playful edge, becoming unbearably soft. “You get the good thing.”
He lowered his head and began to nuzzle in earnest there, a gentle, persistent pressure against Travis’s abdomen. It wasn’t tickling. It was a deep, soothing kneading, a physical affirmation that spread a wave of warmth through Travis’s core. The last of the coiled anxiety, the residual dread from the Fitzgerald woman and the empty, gnawing fear, simply dissolved under the relentless, gentle pressure.
A sound escaped Travis—a broken, wet sigh that was almost a sob. He brought his arms up, not to grab Mavis, but to wrap around his own head, shielding his eyes. The vulnerability was total, absolute.
Mavis didn’t stop. He worked until the tension in Travis’s belly melted into a boneless looseness. Then, finally, he crawled back up and curled into a compact ball right over Travis’s heart, his tail wrapping around himself. He was a warm, heavy penny on Travis’s sternum.
They stayed like that as the sunbeams crept across the floor. The tiger stripes climbed the far wall and began to fade into the uniform gold of late afternoon. Travis’s breathing evened out, syncing with the gentle rise and fall of the small creature on his chest. The world outside, with its knocking and its demands, ceased to exist.
“Mav?” Travis’s voice was rough with disuse.
“Hmm?”
“Thank you.”
Mavis’s tail gave a single, lazy flick. “For what? The spaghetti was yours.” He paused. “Besides. You’re my human. Who else is gonna keep you in working order?”
It was the simplest, most profound logic Travis had ever heard. He let his arms fall to his sides, his hands open and palm-up on the cushions. The cool, quiet house wrapped around them. The empty plate was still on the kitchen table. The unanswered email was still in his client folder. None of it mattered. The only thing that was real, the only thing that was true, was the steady, living weight on his chest and the deep, quiet peace that had settled in its wake.